Fate and Forbearance: Hatred & Heritage
by Italian Empress 1985
Summary: Theirs was a fragile friendship, that fell apart for the sake of an arranged marriage . . . to each other. As the new King and Queen of Ferelden, nothing is easy, and one Dark Promise may threaten to ruin their kingdom and their very souls. Part 1 of 3.
1. Chapter 1: Beyond Duty Lies Nothing

**Disclaimer:** _"Dragon Age: Origins" and all its expansions and additional content is the property of Bioware and EA Games. Large portions of written content within the game, as well as Dragon's Age: The Stolen Throne, and Dragon's Age: Calling, are the creations of David Gaider. Original scenarios and characters are used under the creative license of the writer, ItalianEmpress1985. No profit is being made and the following story is for entertainment purposes only_

**Words From The Author: **_Welcome! There will be a small author's note at the beginning of each chapter, several of them contain information for the chapters. This one however is the most important (and the longest, sorry), going over what you're about to get into. Mostly that this is now a three part story and each part is quite long. You do like novels, right? Right? *crosses fingers*_

_A) This story supports major points of canon, but doesn't swear fealty to canon at all times. Some things in this tale are very similar to the game, things you'll probably recognize, but there are things that are QUITE changed. I respect the canon enough to want to improve it where I felt it was needed and leave it alone where it wasn't broken, but if you see something unfamiliar to you, it is very likely my doing. Such as Eamon being involved during the latter years of the revolution against Orlais. I'll get into the reasons for that one later on, but for now that's an example of some changes._

_B) The Cousland and Alistair of this story were not a romantic pair, nor does a romance suddenly blossom once they are married. Not to discount it entirely, but it would take a long time before there'd be even a inkling in that direction. That isn't to say there isn't 'some' romance in this fic with other characters, but it's not abundant with it. Namely there is Leliana/Alistair, Cousland/Morrigan and some Cousland/Cailan, though Alistair's romance was the only legit one of those three, the other two never made it quite that far. There are a few others that crop up later on, but those are the mainstays that the story begins with._

_C) This is not a 'shining saint Alistair' story, he had plenty of his own moments of being a jerk in the game and being king was more not less likely to bring out some not-so-nice traits, nor is it a 'goody two shoes Cousland' story, as the spoiled daughter of a rich family, that didn't make sense to me for her to be quite so nice (at least not with the Cousland family as I have them in this tale). As far as that goes, pretty much everyone is chock full of grey area in the characterization. Not so big on the fluff in this tale either, but a bit more on the darker side of storytelling. I don't sugar coat 'any'thing. :p There's a lot of the grittier side of arranged marriages, and Renaissance-esque politics. Gwyneth herself is barely a fighter and much more a politician. Along with an exploration of paying the piper, which leads to the consequences of the Dark Promise used to save the two protagonists' lives in the game (and in this story). _

_D) Related to that, to clear up any confusion, while the Archdemon's body was assumed to be female (because high dragons are) the Archdemon was never a high dragon (not in this rendering at least) but a dragon god and always male. The soul corrupting said body was/is a god, not a goddess. So, yes, you've guessed it, we're going to get up close and personal with Urthemiel and he's definitely not a cute little god baby. If this story has any main 'big-bad' it'd be him. I've gotten creative with the lore concerning that too, so some of his background and the fall of the Old Gods might not be what the Chantry preaches. Though I haven't changed what the Chantry says. ;)_

_Enough blabbering from me, you came here to read, and so you shall. _

_Thank you for stopping by, and watch out for low flying dragons._

* * *

**Fate And Forbearance: Part One**

**Hatred and Heritage**

_Their's was a fragile friendship, that fell apart for the sake of an arranged marriage . . . to each other. As the new King and Queen of Ferelden, nothing is easy, and one dark promise may threaten to ruin their kingdom and their very souls._

* * *

_**Chapter One:**_

_**Beyond Duty Lies Nothing**_

* * *

_Yesterday is dead and over. _

_Today is all you'll ever have._

_This is your life, are you who you want to be?_

_This is your life, is it everything you dreamed that it would be?_

_- __Switchfoot_

* * *

**A**rl Eamon Guerrein and Teyrna Gwyneth Cousland stood in the arl's study. The fine simplicity of it did little to make their conversation any easier. At least they felt enough familiarity to leave titles behind for the time being, though that was little help either.

"The Cousland and Theirin names combined would make for a grand claim to the throne. There are those who would question Alistair's suitability for the crown, they say he is untested and unknowledgeable in such matters. They'd be right, but _your_ family name has a strength, as you yourself now do. You've been at the forefront of nearly every conversation about the Blight." Eamon tried to smile, but she wasn't won over and he sighed, readying his next tantalizing speech, but she spoke first.

"Children's stories, the fancies of feather headed girls. Those who would ever think it appropriate that I 'take up the sword' instead of seeing to Highever and its future, is a fool indeed, as are you to convince me of this by way of the heroine's tales about me. Make no mistake, dear arl, I'll never complain about the appreciation, it is my right for the blue blood in my veins that I be so recognized, but those are hardly the traits needed in a good queen. A king . . . perhaps . . ." The young teyrna waved a callous hand, as if dismissing the conversation already, but Eamon wouldn't have it.

"Fine, as you say. Let us forego heroic tales of daring do. I suppose that was Mac Tir's mistake, wasn't it? Hoping the hero worship he had would win him the country's support after all this time. People forget, that much is true, but let us go back to Alistair's experience with politics. I love that boy, truly I do, but he has no head for these things, he _could_, however, under the right tutelage."

Gwyneth smirked unkindly, knowing where the arl was going. "_Mine_, you mean to say."

Eamon rubbed his forehead, not understanding her resistance. "Gwyneth . . . you were raised by a teyrn who instilled all the skills of successful nobility in you, and an understanding of political planning and the delicacies of financial rule. Your family was second in importance only to the king himself, and it could yet be. Many would follow the promise of House Cousland and its legacy. You are the last of your house, ruler of the only _truly_ blue blooded teyrnir in Ferelden, that carries as much weight as Loghain, his title, and his daughter."

Last of the Couslands, there was power in that. Perhaps even enough to make those at that Landsmeet ignore that both Gwyneth and Alistair were Grey Wardens. Though Eamon wasn't fool enough to think everyone would just forget it, but they might let it be glazed over. People saw what they wanted to, after all.

"Hah! You have not seen all that I have then, Eamon. For I hear the wagging tongues of the nobility, see the pointing fingers. They would rather my brother be here, and I would agree with them, except Fergus is lost, to me and the world and I am all that remains. After this Blight is won, I shall retire to Highever, take a husband who I can shape into a proper teyrn, one who will take my family's name so our line is not ended in title." The young woman's lip curled up into a sneer that was half directed at Eamon, and half directed at herself. "If I do not take care of these matters, I will lose the support of the nobility, whose praise now is tenuous at best. I mean to silence their questioning glances by taking up my proper place, not holding Alistair's hand so he can find _his_."

Eamon would've asked her why, if she were as ambitious as he knew her to be, she did not want to take the opportunity given to her. "There will always be wagging tongues, but they can be silenced by those that not only were loyal to your family, but had great affection for the greatness of your house." He wasn't going to back down until she had at least seen some wisdom in the suggestion.

She might have screamed at him, rage and grief claiming her buzzing mind. '_What greatness? Of a house stolen by Howe, its once noble banners burned to be replaced by those of that bastard arl?' _Judgment had been wrought on that man however, and Gwyneth knew she had to let it go, had to start putting the pieces of her mind back together before it was too late. So she remained silent, posture rigid.

It didn't go without notice, as the arl continued his campaign. "I have come to see that Alistair bears great affection for the Orlesian bard you travel with."

"Leliana." Gwyneth inserted abruptly, as Eamon nodded.

"Yes, but that must be secondary to his duty to Ferelden. He cannot marry _her_, and if he does not marry _you_, it will be another high born lady. Your refusal does not spare him from making that choice, I hope you know that. I think both of you might prefer it this way, at least you have the bonds of camaraderie."

The teyrna seemed to take that in, holding it in her mind as the thought sloshed about in her skull like water. Her silver eyes could cut like daggers that shared their color, but at present they were only set pieces on a face stiff with thought. "I trust then that you spoke to _him_ about such duty?"

A huff from the elder man. "Indeed, as unpleasant as the conversation was."

Gwyneth scoffed, tossing her hair behind her and tilting her chin upwards. "As if _this_ one is so full of sunshine? I think not. He certainly must have said no."

"Don't be so certain. He's grown in your company. I see in him much potential, and his ability to reason has improved greatly during these passing months." Eamon stared the young lady down. "I also know you dislike the current queen and with some reasons that I share. Her father has infected her with the bile in his own mind. Anora was once a great queen, but she does not have your noble blood to keep her tempered and she's lost her way. Surely you must see that _you_ are a better candidate, and that your influence would improve Alistair's own suitability." Eamon almost wished she were sitting down, he could use the added height to press his words on her. If only she weren't as tall as she was obstinate. Both traits inherited from her father, overbearing bugger that Bryce was. '_Maker bless his soul_.' Eamon added silently.

'_You are a better candidate_.' The late Teyrna Eleanor Cousland had something similar, once. She'd had many suitors, both those her parents sought out and those that came of their own accord. Her dowry alone was a draw for many nobles and their sons. Her father was finicky about what matches he thought suitable, as was her mother, but Eleanor was the one who dreamt big.

They'd been at the royal palace in Denerim for King Cailan's birthday celebration, an event to which only the finest nobles were invited. It was a list the Couslands were nearly at the top of, beside Teyrn Mac Tir. There Eleanor had pointed at their sovereign, insisting that Gwyneth would make a much better queen than Anora. A mother's bias certainly, aided by too much wine, and yet it was not as if the thought had not found purchase inside her own head before.

As for herself and Cailan . . . '_No, no I won't go down that road again.'_

Standing before Eamon with his suggestion, his 'matchmaking', she couldn't help but think '_Wouldn't mother be overjoyed_?' The thought was a cloying one, sat beside old resentment of Anora and conceit for Gwyneth's own self worth. There was still a part of her that wanted to say yes. The world, however, had changed and Gwyneth had lost many of her girlhood fantasies. Alistair wasn't Cailan, and he was her friend besides, moments even where she thought of him as a brother. '_I can't be his _bride_!' _Her voice rose a pitch or two as she finally responded.

"Do you have any idea what you are asking me to do? You are asking me to marry Alistair, _marry_ him!"

"Was it not you that told me you would do _anything_ for the good of Thedas, _anything_ to uphold the love and respect your family has for Ferelden?" Eamon countered plainly. The Guerrein line wasn't known for backing down.

"Of course I did!"

"This is that 'anything' Gwyneth. This is the moment where you are to be tested. Is duty important to you still, or will your discomfort prevail?"

"Discomfort? _Discomfort_? Far more than _that_. I . . . I can't do this, I'm sorry."

"May I ask why you won't even _conside_r it before giving your refusal?"

"You may, it isn't as if I can sew your mouth shut." Gwyneth rolled her eyes for effect, arms crossed impertinently across her chest.

"I think you might just try." The mouth she'd threatened bore a small grin of amusement before Eamon went on to more serious thoughts. "If _we_ cannot win over the nobility, _Loghain_ will win and when that happens, so too will the _darkspawn_ win, and the lands you profess to care for will be covered in an ocean of innocent blood. He doesn't understand the threat the way you and Alistair do, love of Ferelden has turned his mind to paranoia, I fear. He cannot combat this threat as you do, but you will need the support of the noble houses. This union will give Alistair, you, and our cause a much needed hand to victory at the Landsmeet. So I ask you again, why will you not consider it, if you are so set with your sense of duty?"

"Certainly you make a better politician than my father would ever have admitted, he always thought _he_ was the best, and indeed he was, but _you_ are rather good at slathering on the guilt." With a huff she conceded at least his talent for speeches, but Gwyneth never did answer the question, instead posing another. "We might both die, when we face the Archdemon at the head of this horde, you know that don't you?"

"Death is always a risk, for all of us, but I can't see all ends anymore than you can. What I _can_ see is what is before me _now_, a land in turmoil that will lend itself to slaughter under darkspawn claws. I cannot ignore that, nor pretend I'm not willing to do anything to change it for the better. The future of the crown is as much a concern as the Blight, and to win against the latter we must win the former."

Gwyneth's mind was already working at the issue presented. "You said you spoke with your nephew about this . . . union?"

"Yes. I've been told on many occasions, including by my own wife, of the stubbornness of red heads, but though blonde Alistair is, he was as stubborn about this as you are."

"_Was_?"

"I'd like to hope I got him to come 'round to the idea eventually, though he's brooding in his quarters now, I imagine."

"Yes, he's prone to that." Her eyes glinted at that thought. "This isn't the first time though, is it?"

"What are you talking about?" Eamon raised a puzzled brow, lips twitching above his grey beard.

"This isn't the first time you attempted to make a match for King Maric's son, excepting that the first son was _already_ married." She bore in on the arl, old resentment flaring up.

She couldn't deny the desires for power and importance she had, but to be used like a chess piece on a board, as if no one had a care for what _she_ wanted . . . it was infuriating, even now. More than anything, Gwyneth wanted control.

"How did you . . ." Puzzlement brought Eamon's brows together, blue-gray eyes narrowing in on the young woman before him.

"Cailan told me, that day at Ostagar, before everything fell apart."

"He _told_ you? _Why_?" Eamon couldn't have been more surprised. Then he remembered the rumors after Cailan's twenty third birthday.

'_They were dancing closer than was decent, I tell you.' 'Such a beautiful girl, younger than the queen by ten years, don't tell me the king wouldn't even _think_ about it.' 'The king hardly spends time with the queen anymore, and you know the Couslands travel a lot.' 'My cousin said she saw them together at the summer solstice, tucked away into an alcove, cozy as you please.'_

It had been a task to have them quelled, but he had done it, taking it upon himself to raise his nephew above suspicion. Of course there would always be some rumors that never ceased entirely. Working with Teyrn Cousland had aided him greatly in that, but even afterward thoughts were placed in their heads. Anora was nearing an age where she wouldn't be nearly so fertile, and Cailan had yet to have an heir. Eamon had brought it up to his nephew more than once, to little avail, all discussion ending in anger. So he'd been forced into planning things out without Cailan's notice, so that he might have presented a stronger case to the stubborn king.

Teyrn and Teyrna Cousland had been willing towards the idea, though not without concerns. Bryce had stood beside King Maric Theirin, Loghain Mac Tir, Rendon Howe and Eamon Guerrein against the Orlesian Empire. Adoration for the teyrn's children warred with loyalty to the men he'd served alongside. Bryce had respect for Loghain and hadn't liked the idea of moving against the man's daughter, but at the same time he couldn't deny wanting the utmost for his own. Eamon recalled a visit to their estate in Highever about such a matter.

The Teyrn eventually had said yes to the suggestion, and the planning was begun, all for naught it seemed, when Cailan fell at Ostagar. Now, however another opportunity to seal the destiny of Ferelden was presented to Eamon, and he wasn't going to shy away from it because Gwyneth and Alistair might not like it.

"It hardly matters _why_ he told me, what matters is that he _did_. He thought you already had someone in mind. You did didn't you? It was _me_ wasn't it?" She barely needed to ask the question at all, she was already nearly certain. Her eyes were hard and cold but she took note that Eamon wasn't cowering away from the truth.

"Yes." There was no need to lie about it now, and Gwyneth was right, the 'why' hardly mattered. He wouldn't let it have any bearing on the decision before him, before _all_ of them. "Your mother and father would have wanted this."

"My _parents_?" Gwyneth had thought her mother's words were merely a few cursory comments made out of turn, little more. Her father had reacted very . . . unkindly, about those rumors, and his punishment was something Gwyneth would never forget. _Had he changed his mind?_

"Did you think I would've presented you as a candidate, without talking to them?"

Clarity dawned for Gwyneth.

That fateful day in the Great Hall of Castle Cousland, stood beside the traitorous Howe, his words remained. "_You're my darling girl, I love you. I trust you to carry on the Cousland name should anything bad happen." _Her brother, Fergus had already married well, and produced an heir, he had done his part and Bryce expected his daughter to do hers. The late teyrn had no way of knowing his grandson would be murdered beside his mother, with Fergus lost and likely dead. If Bryce _had_ known, Gwyneth knew the task upon her would've been pressed harder.

'_Your mother and father would've wanted this_.' Yes, she thought they might have at that.

The room was quiet, but for the noise of activity in the courtyard outside the window. Gwyneth glanced in that direction, perhaps wishing she weren't there, but outdoors, holding on to a freedom that was quickly slipping away. Perhaps she just needed to collect her thoughts. "I . . . I would like some time to think on this."

"Of course, but time is of the essence and we've very little of it to waste. I'll be expecting your answer no later than tomorrow morning." Eamon nodded his head at the woman as she bid him good night, and left.

* * *

It was early enough in the morning that some of Gwyneth's companions were still abed. She'd gotten little sleep, and was all but ready to bolt from her quarters, as soon as she felt Alistair might be up. The two of them had developed the same internal wake-up call, when it came to sleep, Gwyneth assumed it might have been a Grey Warden connection.

Of course he could've still been sleeping, in which case she might just use it as an excuse to avoid talking to him. It certainly wasn't a discussion she looked forward to. Arl Eamon might have even suggested it was entirely unnecessary, that she could go tell _him_ what she had decided, and he would tell his nephew accordingly.

However, Gwyneth found herself disliking the idea of how arranged it seemed. She couldn't get away from the fact that it was _indeed_ arranged, but Alistair was her friend and she could lessen the feelings of it being some kind of blood pact.

The corner of the hall saw her standing before Alistair's door, a moment to draw in a long breath, newfound bravery along with it and she finally knocked. There was some mumbling, but nothing she could discern. "Are you awake? Might I come in a moment?"

"Gwyn?" It was muffled through the door, but it was Alistair's voice nonetheless.

"Yes."

His sigh was apparent through the thick wood. "Enter."

She almost laughed. '_Enter_' Already he sounded as if he were a king. The direction of her thoughts surprised her. It wasn't as if she imagined the young man was completely incompetent, at least not anymore, but he'd professed his lack of the character necessary for a kingly position, and she agreed . . . but now; perhaps Eamon had been right, Alistair _had_ changed.

He was sitting at the desk in the quarters afforded to him, the chair turned round so he could stare into the fire. At the moment he was staring at _her_ instead, both of them measuring the appearance of the other. How odd it was to be without battle gear, and it was clear that Gwyneth was far more comfortable without armaments than Alistair would ever likely be.

"You look . . . different." He was mumbling, which wasn't the best indicator of a good mood.

"As do you." She nodded her head in his direction, waving a hand to point out the fresh tunic.

"Probably not fancy enough for you." Alistair snorted, well aware of Gwyneth's more than sleight self absorption. When he'd first met the red-headed noblewoman, he had thought her a spoiled brat. Over time that lessened a bit, but not entirely. She was still conceited at times, and overly fond of finery for someone that had been dropped into a more military existence. She had confessed to longing for the gowns of her old life, on more than one occasion. The ones afforded her at the Arl's estate were quite common, offered on short notice as they were.

Leliana liked fine things too, but Alistair was entirely hesitant to start making comparisons between the two women.

"They're fine enough, the shoes are a bit tight though. So saying, would you mind terribly if I sat down?" Gwyneth was completely unaware of his inner thoughts as she fidgeted.

He waved a hand and she took the overstuffed chair he had gestured to, leaning back in a posture far more casual than the rapid jumping in her nerves.

"Where is Leliana?"

"Out."

That much was obvious and Gwyneth barely resisted rolling her eyes. He was already showing his mulish streak. "I see. May I ask where?"

"I . . . I don't know." He looked utterly dejected and lonely. "We had an argument."

"Oh." She was quite certain she knew what it was about.

Long uncomfortable silence stretched between them, and Gwyneth found herself almost hoping the absent bard would return and she'd have an excuse to leave. She could make up something to the arl and find a way to avoid ever having this conversation.

_She was a Cousland, she could do anything_. That thought stopped her, and she knew then that there was no turning back from her decision. With a deep breath, she opened her mouth. "Your Uncle has brought forth a proposal, and he tells me he already spoke to you about it."

Alistair winced, refusing to meet her eyes. He didn't want her to think he found her horrid. She was his friend and fellow Grey Warden, but the prospect was painful and made him feel sick. "He did. He's right in that you would make a fine queen, and certainly better than any noblewoman I can think of, though I don't know many." Alistair shrugged, the gesture looking as heavy as his heart felt.

A small smile tugged at the corner of Gwyneth's mouth. The same weight that pressed down on her was at least two fold on _him_, she could see that plain as day. "If there is little comparison, I'm not certain how well recommended I am for the position."

"What did you say? About . . . you know." His tone grew very grave, and finally he looked at her. Brown staring into silver, and both pairs dark with displeasure.

"I haven't said anything yet, nothing committed at least. I wanted to think about it and I have, but I wished to speak with you first."

"Well, here I am." Alistair smirked, trying to find some humor in the situation, but there was none to be had. He had a feeling he already knew what her answer would be. So many times she'd spoken of nobility, duty to one's lands and people. "You think it's a good idea, don't you?"

"'Good' isn't _quite_ the word I'd choose, but it seems the best recourse available to us, yes." A slight nod of her head, a quick motion with her hands. It all seemed so simple, in practice it was anything but.

"Leliana, she . . . didn't take it well, but I think she understands. I understand too." He sighed, wide shoulders slumped, his hands running through his dark blonde hair, clasping behind his head.

Gwyneth nodded in understanding. "It isn't easy for me either, but after giving the matter as much thought as I could, there is little else that would help you win the crown as much as my hand. At least there is little else you would accept, after all you could marry Anora . . ."

"Never!" He glowered, gaze firm. "I thought once that she was a great queen, smart, definitely smart, but now . . . We could've been _killed_ in Fort Drakon because of her, because of her lies! We rescued that ungrateful witch from Rendon Howe and what did we get in return? A nearly fatal trip to a prison tower." He shook his head again, vehement. "No, I see what she is now, no better than the other pretenders out there. There's _no way _I'd marry her, Gwyn."

A sly smile almost came to Gwyneth's mouth, thinking on the insults the two woman had flung at each other. Where it had been Gwyneth that was conniving, and Alistair had once suffered _her_ with as great an insult as he was now with Anora. Time made things fade away . . . or convenience.

The teyrna had always thought herself better than Anora, born of The Blood whereas Loghain's daughter had her title only because of the favor the late King Maric placed upon her father. Now it would seem that where Alistair was concerned, Gwyneth had won.

There may have been a bigger smile of victory in that, but this was a serious matter and those kinds of feelings were inappropriate. "There were times, when I was younger, that I envied Queen Anora. I thought myself more beautiful than her, more clever, more . . . worthy. My mother hardly helped, occasionally making not so subtle hints, finally she let up, at my father's insistence. The Couslands were second only to the Theirins of whom only Cailan was left, or so it was thought then, but _second_ we still were, and I wanted to be _first_."

Alistair allowed himself a thin smile. "I can see that."

Gwyneth narrowed her eyes at him briefly, but smiled in turn, hiding her covetous desires behind a shroud of the camaraderie Eamon had mentioned. "Still, I like this idea no more than you, but I would do this. I would be your queen if it's in the best interests of the people." Gwyneth felt her throat tighten on tears she dared not to shed, the moment could fall apart if she did, and timing was everything, but even for the thrill of victory, the idea of marrying Alistair made her feel heart-sick. Never could she have who she truly wanted, one was long dead and the other . . . she imagined no one knew of the feelings she harbored, and for whom, perhaps not even the object of her affection. Soon it would not matter, perhaps it did not even matter _now_.

Storytellers would always weave tales of forbidden love, and those who read such tales ate them up with abandon, thinking them oh so very romantic. No one ever talked about what it was like in actuality, how it filled you with emotion, but ripped your heart out. They never dwelled on how the pain of it twisted you up until you no longer knew what direction was down or how you'd gotten there.

It ended in tragedy in those tales, _oh yes indeed_, but always in the same manner. The star crossed lovers forgoing life and any other love for the power of their 'true love' The heroine would plunge a dagger into her chest, or poison herself, and her beloved would throw himself into battle to fight until the death, for he no longer had anything to live for. It was not reality. _Reality_ made you keep going, made you pretend such love never existed, because the importance of it paled in comparison to other matters. Tales of romance had the quick release of death to end the suffering of the lovers, but love in life was a slow poison, rotting you from the inside out, making that suffering continue until you had to put the thought of your pain from your mind, or risk madness.

Love, as Gwyneth had been taught since her youth, was dangerous and deadly, a lie that ate away at your ability to think. Never had she believed that so much as she did then.

Alistair took a moment, what he thought might be the last moment he would have to savor being 'just Alistair' and not 'king in training'

Leliana's face was there, in his mind and hovering as if it were a mirage before his eyes. The long talks of the chantry. She found peace there, and he couldn't wait to get out. He recalled with painful precision the impish and flirtatious discussions on just what bards did. The embarrassing admonition that he'd never been with anyone, and the joy when he had lain with her for the first time. His blue eyed goddess. How she'd cried when he told her what he had to do, the look on her face breaking his heart clean in half. He wouldn't make her his mistress, wouldn't have people whispering about her. There'd been enough of that in the woman's life.

"Eamon told me . . . he told me that I could never marry Leliana. I wanted to be enraged, but inside, I knew he was right." Alistair rubbed a palm across his sorrow-weary face.

"If we survive against the Archdemon, I will have a duty to marry of the nobility and eventually produce heirs." He felt his cheeks grow hot in embarrassment, unable to look at Gwyneth. Leliana had been his first, and he once told her that he wanted her to be the last. Duty required otherwise, but Alistair couldn't imagine doing those same _things_ with _Gwyn_. "But children between two Grey Wardens . . . I've been told its nigh on impossible."

"So you think it would be better if you were wed to another?" Gwyneth raised one dark red brow.

Alistair shook his head, holding back a tortured groan. '_I don't want any of this! I just want Leliana!'_ Finally gaining control over himself, he sat up straighter. "No. We can . . . We can figure out what to do about an heir later. This is hard enough, and to marry some stranger, or Maker forbid, Anora . . . no, I can't do that. Not when the option to have _you_ at my side instead is presented. I care about you Gwyn, you're my friend, at least we'll have that."

"So we're really going to do this then? King Alistair and Queen Gwyneth?" She figured she'd better start getting used to the titles. Even if she found herself in the Fade after facing their deadliest foe, she would at least have a good bitter laugh over the irony of it all.

"Yes, I think we are." Alistair was tight lipped, his face taut in an effort to keep his heart ache hidden away. He knew he wasn't nearly as talented at pretending as Gwyn, but he'd better begin to be.

Not even another second left to the last Cousland for her own sorrows. She left them buried as she rose from the seat, head held high. The decision was made, and she would see it through with all the pride she could muster.

* * *

She maintained that same stance at the Landsmeet, her hand entwined with Alistair's. A fine facade of their 'united love' for all the nobles to see. Gwyneth had always been good at games of pretense, but she was surprised that Alistair was developing a talent for it as well, even if he _did_ grip her hand like a vice for those first fraught moments before the uproar began.

A look was sent to the sorrowful Anora, the blonde woman holding on to her pride, but there were tears in her eyes.

Loghain kneeled before Alistair, only because his knees could no longer support him, not for any acceptance of defeat. He was unafraid of the judgment that had been passed on him. The man looked up at the would-be-king, eyes blue and cold, like ice.

"Do it if you are going to. If you are Maric's son in anything but name, you won't hesitate."

Gwyneth could barely believe what she was hearing. It was as if the teyrn _wanted_ to die. Alistair was shaking beside her, with rage she might have guessed, but perhaps some other unnamed emotion as well.

"Warden . . . Please . . . " Anora's elegant voice rang out in the din. Neither woman had been very fond of one another from their first meeting, but the queen needed Gwyneth and her eyes sought her out.

"What will it be?" A voice of one of the nobles attending the Landsmeet. "What does the Warden say?"

Alistair was a Warden, Riordan was a Warden, but somehow it was Gwyneth who seemed to have inherited that name as if it were as much a title as 'queen.' In the days to come it would have to be forgotten, replaced with a grander one.

"You know he deserves to die for what he did!" Alistair spat, eyes shooting sparks. "Are you with me Gwyn?" His voice was lowered, and for a moment of weakness he was looking to her as he had since Ostagar. Looking to her to be the final voice.

He had been with her when she had slain Howe. Some of the others had balked at her actions. '_Vengeance will not fill the hole in your heart_.' Wynne had advised. Alistair, however, stayed beside her. He understood what she needed to do, and let it be done. She owed him the same.

Gwyneth gripped his arm in one hand, and nodded. "I have _always_ been with you."

She stood firm as Loghain was brought to his end, Alistair's blade falling with swift revenge to cleave the man's head. Gwyneth let the sounds of shock about the chamber fall on her deadened ears. A lurch wound in her guts, Anora's heart-wrenching cry breaking through the self appointed silence, but still she remained at Alistair's side. The other woman looked up at Gwyneth from where she was sat in the pool of blood around her father's headless body, eyes full of hate and grief. Splatters of Loghain's blood were on his daughter's face, coloring that pale and creamy façade with bits of crimson.

Gwyneth looked away, feeling tears pricking in her own eyes, a rare grief from one like her, sympathetic with the loss of a woman she'd long professed an intense dislike for. The teyrna knew what it was like to lose a parent, the heartbreak still there beneath her ribs, and still she'd stood beside her future king, her future husband and let it happen to Anora.

Eamon's words came back to her. _'_Anything_ for the good of Thedas, _anything_ to uphold the love and respect your family has for Ferelden.'_

Alistair was still shaking, bits of blood splattered on him from his grisly act, breath coming in quickly. Then he felt Gwyneth's fingers over his own, as if she cared not a whit for the red fluid on them. There was a large pulse in his heart, nerves, grief, anger, all swelling within him at the justice he had wrought upon Loghain. For all that he hated that man, for as long as such dark feelings of revenge had propelled him, when little else could have, it was over in a blink.

"It's done now. Let them see that their king is calm and sure of himself." Gwyneth's words were whispered so that only _he_ would hear them.

Slowly, Alistair let the grip on his sword lessen, putting it back in its scabbard. With a deep breath, he turned his head from the sight. Gesturing to the guards, who were ordered to remove Loghain's body. _There were other matters that he needed to attend to personally_. The words felt shallow, but he was surprised at how in charge he sounded, the tone of his voice both strong and commanding.

No words were said between the two Grey Wardens as they left that bloodied room, but Gwyn's hand was in his, lending him a silent reassurance. Leliana was watching them, a sad cast to her eyes, and it was all Alistair could do to avoid going to her. He wanted _her_ consolation, but he would settle for Gwyn's, because it was his duty, and beyond that duty there was nothing he could have, nothing he could own.


	2. Chapter 2: Living and Dying

**Disclaimer:** _"Dragon Age: Origins" and all its expansions and additional content is the property of Bioware and EA Games. Large portions of written content within the game, as well as Dragon's Age: The Stolen Throne, and Dragon's Age: Calling, are the creative genius of one David Gaider. Original scenarios and characters are used under the creative license of the writer, ItalianEmpress1985. No profit is being made and the following story is for entertainment purposes only_

**Words From The Author: **_This chapter comes with a warning of F/F romance, of a sort. I'm a fan of slash and het both, but if any of my readers aren't fine with slash, I think you'll still be okay reading this. It's a romance that wasn't included, but I think it should have been. :p_

_A few times you'll see where Alistair is referred to as a former Templar (sometimes even by himself), or if it is from Morrigan's perspective a _failed_ Templar. I know he never got to the part where he took vows and became a Templar officially, but as per his conversation with Wynne I think he probably saw himself as one for a time._

_I've changed the 'landscape' of Castle Redcliffe. In the game there were no windows in most of the guest rooms, which struck me as odd, so now, they have windows. :p Another thing changed is that Morrigan does not mention that it was her mother's intention all along to send Morrigan with the group, so she would save them at the end. It would seem more that Morrigan herself (while learning the ritual from her mother) decided on the Dark Promise for her own reasons, but doesn't want to allude to that. I've also had the groups that assist you during that last battle accompany the group into Fort Drakon. In the game leaving them behind only to summon them at the roof is all well and good, but in a story it works better I think to just keep them with you._

_This will be the last chapter that focuses on things within the game. Once we move past the coronation of the following chapter, everything will be new and far more matrimonial focused._

_Thanks to my reviewers, I appreciate all reviews, even if they aren't 100% complimentary. Writing is a performance art after a fashion, and every author can stand for some advice now and again. Even those that are published, which I can certainly attest to, having read some terrible published fiction out there. *shudders*_

_Thank you for stopping in. Watch out for low flying dragons!_

* * *

_**Chapter Two:**_

_**Living And Dying**_

* * *

_All that I'm living for._

_All that I'm dying for._

_Although I wanted more._

_- Evanescence_

* * *

**O**utside the thick glass, a heavy rain pelted like drumbeats of impending war, and war was surely upon them. A fire crackled in the quiet room, its lone occupant staring into it as if contemplating the fiery abyss that could be awaiting her.

All of Redcliffe could be wondering the same thing as Arl Eamon prepared them for the three day march to Denerim, and to the Blighted horde that was waiting, the dreaded archdemon at their head.

Morrigan stared without a break, but for the occasional blinking of her sooty lashes. Her eerie golden eyes reflected the lick of flame, like a demon the old tales would paint her mother to be. Her _dead_ mother.

Once the intolerable Alistair had rounded on her, just outside Lothering. She couldn't recall the reason now, likely some imagined slight on him. The words he'd asked her, voice full of a venom she didn't think a failed Templar would have, those she remembered. _"What would happen if your mother died?" _Her snide response of, _"Before or after I stopped laughing?" _It was true enough. Flemeth and Morrigan had never had a typical relationship of mother and daughter, and once she found out what her mother had in store for her, she _had_ to die.

Alistair's question had been asked to inquire as to Morrigan's own state of mind if she lost someone she loved, except she'd never loved anyone. There was no one she could think of losing that she would be terribly disheartened over, except Gwyneth Cousland.

Over a convoluted course of events the mage had been shocked to discover that she _did_ care about the noblewoman, enough that the thought of her imminent demise brought a wave of bile up from her guts. It shouldn't have, Morrigan should've been able to shrug the thought off with little effort. Certainly the woman had some use, but she could be replaced.

The surprisingly in depth discussions late at night, a closeness that bordered on sisterhood, the fact that Gwyneth had killed her mother to protect her with no more reason than their peculiar friendship . . . _those_ things could _not_ be replaced. Yet for all that, Morrigan knew their companionship was coming to an end, but she couldn't bring herself to let that end be death. She'd made a promise once, that while she may not have always been deserving of Gwyn's friendship, that she would try her best. Her plans to save her dearest Gwyneth were the best that Morrigan could manage.

Suddenly there was another presence in the room and Morrigan didn't need to turn around to know who it was. She'd become eerily attuned to the other woman. "Do not be alarmed, it is only I." Turning from the fire, she took in the cautious features of the young noble.

"Morrigan? Is everything alright?" Dark red brows knitted from confusion, to concern.

The raven haired mage smiled, one corner of her full mouth tilting upwards. There was little happiness in it, however. "I am well. 'Tis _you_ who is in danger."

Gwyneth sighed, moving to drop her twin blades onto the dresser. "We're _all_ in danger, don't tell me you think we should back out _now_."

"No, no backing out, as it were. I have a plan, you see."

"A plan? For what?" With practiced ease, the teyrna shrugged out of her armaments, Morrigan remaining silent and watchful, but any bashfulness at getting dressed and undressed in front of each other had fled some time ago, though neither woman could recall just when. Gwyneth left her traveling attire beneath. She'd just have to put everything back on once the red dawn came, but if nothing else, she was determined to have her last night of sleep be as comfortable as she could manage. If Gwyneth was able to sleep at all.

Golden irises watched the other woman, that litheness and grace of movement that seemed to solely belong to Gwyneth alone. Certainly there was no one else in Morrigan's imaginings, few as they were, that could have slaughtered darkspawn so elegantly. As elegant as rending them asunder and spilling their tainted blood _could_ be. Yet, that life of blood and blades had never seemed to suit Gwyneth, a feeling of watching such displacement never abated from Morrigan's mind, and far too often imaginings of what Gwyneth had been before, what she could be again, danced across the mage's thoughts. All at once she was reminded of the gilded mirror of long ago, smashed by her mother. Something so elegant and lovely, and Morrigan was expected to care nothing for such things. Just as she should not have a care for Gwyneth, but she did.

"I know what happens when the archdemon dies. I know a Grey Warden must be sacrificed, and that sacrifice could be _you_." A subtle hitch had found its way into the mage's voice, unnoticed by her friend. Her gaze firmly locked with Gwyneth's. Gold boring into silver.

"Morrigan . . ." The Warden began, caution bleeding into her tone.

"Do not bother lying to me. I know you too well. I heard everything that old Orlesian, Riordan, told you, and I know what you are going to do."

"You should not have been eavesdropping." She made a chore out of unlacing her thick leather boots, long hair tickling her neck as it swung over one shoulder during her movements.

Morrigan ignored the censure, eyes narrowing. "Why not let Alistair do it? He would like that I think, ending his life in glory and honor, to go join his _precious_ Duncan. Thedas knows he blubbered over him enough."

"You are needlessly cruel towards him, and I dare say he wouldn't like to be _dead_, leaving Leliana and Ferelden without him. The land _needs_ Alistair!" One boot off, the other was forgotten as Gwyneth straightened her back, fixing Morrigan with the fiercest glare she possessed.

"It needs _you_! That idiot would lose his 'darling' anyway, he cannot stay with her and be the king he is intent on being, now that you have gone and convinced him it is his solemn fate." The witch's eyes were sparking hotly in anger. "You are set to be his queen, I think you a fool for it, but now you are just going to throw that plan away to waste your life?" Morrigan had never expected that Alistair would sacrifice himself, but her worry for her friend made her temper erratic, and as always the other Warden was the one to suffer under her wrath.

Gwyneth was ready to start shouting back, but she clenched her fists, eyes held tightly closed, voice even and careful. "I know you may not understand this, but it is _not_ a waste. I was born into a legacy of power and prestige, but it also carries responsibility to the land I call home. Do not mistake me, I've no wish to die, but I would do whatever I need to, if it would make Ferelden safe from the darkspawn."

"There will _always_ be some _looming_ threat. Will a Grey Warden be expected to die every time? None of you asked for the sacrifice demanded of you." Morrigan leveled her gaze. "I offer you a way out. A . . . ritual, performed tonight, before we are on the march and it becomes impossible." Now that she'd spoken the words, she felt the tightness in her shoulders easing away.

"Just what sort of ritual is this?" Gwyneth was immensely wary. She trusted Morrigan, of that there was no question, but no matter the bond they'd formed, dark spell work was still dark spell work. Yet, even for that worry, the chance to assure her own survival was as tantalizing as cold, clear water to a wanderer that had been lost in a dry, cracked desert. Her words of duty weren't a lie, but Gwyneth had never wanted to perform that duty through self sacrifice, no matter what she told others.

"It is old magic. From a time before the Circle of Magi was created. Some would call it blood magic, but I think that means little. It will be of no cost to you." Her haphazard bun of black hair left a few pieces framing her face, the lashes beneath that fringe just as dark and the eyes below carrying that shadow to completion.

Through her teeth, Gwyneth's voice seeped through, so soft as to be nearly inaudible. "_Nothing_ comes without a price."

"Perhaps, but that price need not be so _unbearable_. What I propose is this: convince Alistair to lay with me. Here, tonight, and from this ritual a child shall be conceived within me. The child will bear the taint, and when the archdemon is slain, its essence will seek the child like a beacon. At this early stage, the child can absorb that essence and _not_ perish. The archdemon is still destroyed, with no Grey Warden dying in the process." Morrigan's offer came out in a rush, as if she feared that to stop would mean she'd never finish.

Immediately Gwyneth was pacing the room in her agitation, movements lopsided with one boot on. "_What_? _That_ is your plan? Are you _insane_?"

"Calm down and think about it." Morrigan moved with her, never losing the other woman's gaze.

"I . . . I don't need to 'think about it'! This is insanity, it's _depraved_! No . . . j-just no, Morrigan! Absolutely not!" Gwyneth's pallid cheeks were warmed with the color of her shock.

The mage took a daring step closer, and placed a hand at Gwyneth's shoulder. When they had first met, she would've balked at such contact, she'd seen no use for all the touching people engaged in. Now she saw what value it may have had. Morrigan lowered her voice, the tone strangely calming. "Is that what you really think, or is it jealousy that makes you say that? Is it that you cannot bear the thought of Alistair and I lain together?"

Gwyneth pulled away from Morrigan's touch as if burned, head turned so she didn't have to look at her. "Don't be disgusting! Alistair is like a _brother_ to me, I have no interest in who he sleeps with!"

"I was not speaking of _him_." That soul grasping stare again, eyes almost like those of a predatory cat.

All at once, Gwyneth realized that she knew. Here she'd been doing such a _marvelous_ job of hiding her inappropriate feelings for the other woman, and that damn mage . . . _she knew_. The noblewoman swallowed nervously, trying to laugh and wave off the suggestion, but it was true enough and there was nothing for it. Turning to the brunette she looked at her intensely, waiting, hoping and dreading for some sign that she was not the only one to feel that way. On Morrigan's face there was only an almost uncharacteristic pity.

"Gwyneth, I cannot give you what you would wish for."

And there it was. _How long had she been waiting for that, and why didn't it hurt as badly as she thought it would?_ Because it was already over and she knew it.

The Chantry would have condemned them both if they gave in, and even those who did not agree would have seen it as unnatural and certainly unacceptable for nobility. Gwyneth knew of noblemen that married and had other men to attend to their needs, but it was always meant to be a secret. She had never thought anything like that would happen to her, but it wasn't because Morrigan was a _woman_, it was because she was _Morrigan_. Still, in the end, it was nothing more than a dream. That realization was far more bitter than sweet.

There were no tears of disappointment, no tell-tale pout to Gwyneth's mouth, just a nod of her head. "Yes, I know."

Morrigan told herself it was better like that, to be assured that you were meant to live without the worthless trappings of 'love' Still . . . _No. No, I am not going to do this._ She could not give in to the allure of her foolish emotions, but she cared for Gwyneth, and that alone was a rarity and she would protect it with everything she had.

"I know you do not wish to die. There is no need Gwyneth. Here at the end of all our travels, let _me_ be the one to carry this burden. I would see you live, there is a greatness in you that even _I_ am not blind to. Do not ask me to stand by and watch that flame be extinguished, because I will _not_." Again her hand was on the other woman's shoulder, fingers capable of so much magical power, now merely lain upon the clothed skin of another person. "There are things in this world that should be preserved."

Both of them knew Morrigan wasn't talking about a 'thing'.

"I . . . I can't." Gwyneth was facing the window, watching the guards move about in the courtyard, their armor glinting with the flashing of distant lightning. Already she felt her dismissal fading, even as the storm drew nearer.

"After tonight we need not speak of this again, I will face the horde at Denerim with you, and then I shall be gone. I will leave and you will not follow. This child will be mine to raise, and I shall do so only to preserve the Old God that was. Do not fear that some darkspawn deity will return to reign terror on Ferelden, I will make sure of that. All I ask is to be left alone, and in that it will be better for you. You will not have to see me, or think of me and what happened tonight any longer. Put it from your mind." Her words were seductive in their low lilt and Morrigan knew it.

Gwyneth yanked the one boot off, throwing it to land with the other in her last bit of pique, not caring if the servants saw her wandering the halls with bare feet. With that action, her fierceness bled out from her, and she took a deep breath. Gwyneth knew what the mage offered was indeed wrong, she knew she should say no.

"I will go speak to Alistair."

There were no more words between them that night.

* * *

Morning had come, and with it, the grand march to Denerim. Over three days journey, and they were there, tired but unable to rest.

The archdemon became visible once they crossed the last ridge before the great gates, a swooping winged terror, black against the backdrop of those roiling red and grey clouds.

A lifetime's worth of two hours had seen the mixed army of the Grey Wardens, dwarves, elves, mages and men from every corner, storming the besieged capital. Now at last there was breath before another plunge as the group had fought their way to Fort Drakon, the blackened tower hanging over all the city as its tallest structure.

Fighting off the darkspawn generals was laborious work and the end of it saw the ever slimming group stood before the dark doors of Fort Drakon. The place had never been a very welcoming sight, it wasn't intended to be, then it was even worse. Many statues sat on the stairs and the landings, their gazes falling on the miniscule group below their stone eyes.

Riordan's broken body lay on the cobbles, where it had fallen after his failed battle with the archdemon and Alistair had to fight not to look. His blood was impossible to discern among the life fluid of the all the hurlocks, genlocks and shrieks that were little more than torn carcasses now.

The senior Grey warden had failed, the afterlife claiming him before he could finish the archdemon. A moment was set aside in Alistair's thoughts, for remembrance and grief of the fallen Riordan, but it had to pass quickly. There was no more time for grief and sorrow, they were at the end.

Behind him, the collection of elven archers, mostly Dalish with some from the city, stood ready. They had been the best bet, able to keep the darkspawn at bay long enough to give the future king and his group enough clearance to press through. The one amongst them named captain nodded his head at Alistair.

Gwyneth stood beside him, leading as she always had since that fateful day at Ostagar. Now, however, they shared that burden, either automatically or if she had purposely done so, Alistair didn't know, but leadership belonged to both of them that day.

He took in a deep breath, the massive double doors already opened. An oppressive heat blanketed them. The city was burning and soon the tower would as well. For a moment the Grey Warden was paralyzed, his booted foot halfway up that last landing.

Then Gwyneth's gloved hand was at his back, and she was sending him an encouraging smile. There were no words with it, but there didn't have to be, that glance was enough. It said '_You can do this, you _have_ to do this_.'

Suddenly he was back at Ostagar, the bridge before the pair of them, as King Cailan's army battled the horde. It had been Gwyneth frozen then, a girl taught some tactics by her father, but never thinking she'd be in an actual battle. Alistair had put his hand on her shoulder and offered her a kind smile of support. It was all that was needed and she'd moved forward, just as he did now.

One foot and then the next, carrying him into the tower, Wynne and Zevran behind him.

Gwyneth suggested they bring Leliana in case the 'spawn had set any traps, but Alistair wouldn't have it. Maybe it was selfish, but he was going have just that one thing. Leliana wouldn't be put at risk before the archdemon. Gwyneth had protested, but Alistair stood firm in that and eventually they had agreed to bring Zevran for such a task.

It seemed he might have been the better choice after all. They had the elves for their ranged combat to replace the immense skill Leliana had with a bow, and the assassin was excellent for scouting ahead for any traps that may have lain in wait. Wynne's skills at healing were unmatched, and that alone bolstered their morale. Together, Alistair felt as confident as he could.

As they made their way through the tower, floor after floor, they finally reached the doors leading to the roof.

"This should be fun." Zevran flicked his hair back, face set.

"I walk through this field of darkness, knowing that the Maker's light shall embrace me once more, either through victory or death. To my end I go, my heart full of hope." Gwyneth's voice was low and precise, her high born Ferelden accent both posh and rich, lending a gravity to the words.

Wynne smile at the woman. "I did not realize you were that religious, my dear."

The younger woman shrugged. "Oh, I'm not, but now is as good a time to start as any."

"So shall it be." Alistair added, the last line of that particular prayer, a devil-may-care grin sent to the tall red-head beside him.

With that they opened the doors and stepped out onto the roof of Fort Drakon.

* * *

A burst of purple flame, dark and immensely hot seared the tiles before them, screams erupting from the soldiers that battled the massive archdemon. It was making short work of them, but as soon as the Grey Wardens were near, it stopped to look at them.

Milky white eyes focused on those that shared its tainted blood, an ungodly golden glow in its slitted irises. Gwyneth shivered, frozen for a moment as she was caught in that unholy gaze. She felt like the archdemon somehow knew exactly who she was, but that wasn't possible . . . _was it?_

A bloated dragon's body was before her, the skin a hideous mottled mix of black and sickly purple, and yet there was a voice in her mind. It almost sounded human, and she could, nearly make out the words. She felt like, if it were possible, the archdemon would've smiled at her.

With recognition it roared, swiping the men behind it away with one strike of its tail, and turned to charge its bulk towards the newcomers. With that movement, Gwyneth broke herself free from her moment of shock.

"Come on then, you ugly bastard!" Gwyneth screamed, weary of all of it and anxious to see it end. Her twin blades were out, the Thorns of Dead Gods harkening to her with the heavy enchantments on them. She could feel magical heat flare up on their silverite surface, a spell from Wynne that added flame to all of their weapons.

The rooftop rumbled with the movement of the archdemon and it reared up, roaring and thrashing at all those around it. Darkspawn flooded out of the other doorways of the roof, and their shrieking and growling added to that of their great leader, blending into a horrid cacophony. Arrows flew about the companions, the elves quick to unleash their skill on the foul creatures.

Alistair bashed his shield into a hurlock, an alpha of his kind by the gruesome decorations on his armor, skulls clanking against the plates. The blonde let loose a battle cry of the Templars, of whom he had once shared an affiliation in all but vows and the drinking of lyrium. Around him, the darkspawn wailed at the effect of the holy smiting the cry had caused. He looked up to the tainted dragon that was making an effort at flying.

The archdemon was having difficulty getting airborne. One wing had been damaged by the beast's fight with Riordan, but the other was functioning well as it lifted itself only to fly back down to make a sweep at a group of elves, killing them with its weight.

"Zevran, get that other wing! We need to keep that thing grounded!" Gwyneth cried out, spinning her body in time to move away from the wild axes of a genlock. She whirled both blades about and decapitated the thing.

"As you wish!" The elven assassin grinned wildly, clearly enjoying himself despite the potentially fatal danger the fight represented. He bounded across the roof, leaping over a hurtling shriek, its sharp cries of dismay following him as he landed on the other side of it, still running with a litheness inherent to both his race and skill.

The archdemon opened its razor sharp maw as Zevran approached, purple flames erupting from the great beast's mouth. With a roll to the right the assassin had thrown himself to the ground, the heat of the dark fire searing his back painfully, though he was still able to fight. A more pleasant warmth suffused him, and he knew without looking that Wynne had healed him.

He was up quickly, and leapt atop the blighted dragon, using the lowest end of its jagged tail as a jumping point. He took his daggers and cut into the sinew at the top of its wing. It roared and thrashed, Zevran thrown to the ground during the wild movements. He barely had time to get out of the way of those nasty rear talons.

"_Now_! Get it _now_!" Gwyneth was all but shrieking, eyes crazed in her fever for victory. Everything was so desperate, success hanging on but a thread.

The companions and remaining elves threw everything they had at the archdemon. The battle had turned in their favor, in what felt like an eternity, but it had been mere moments. Gwyneth shouted in triumph, but as the archdemon's head came up again, her face was transformed by a snarl of rage.

"No! Gwyn, no!" Alistair's voice, full of panic and worry, fading amidst the roaring of the woman's own blood.

Her companion's shouts were left behind as she ran, both blades ready. No thought of survival followed her, Gwyneth's mind consumed by the red haze of her hatred for this thing, that had caused Cailan's death, and the ruination of her country.

The archdemon opened its mouth as if to swallow her, but the Grey Warden fell to her knees, painfully skidding on the slick tiles. A roar from the blighted dragon made her head ring but the blades came up, slicing into the beast's neck as Gwyneth slid beneath it. Blood poured out, washing over the Warden's body and she rolled out from under the archdemon's long neck as its head came crashing down. Shrieking the woman stood on legs shaking with adrenaline.

"_Just die_!" She screamed and drove both short swords into the archdemon's head. A harsh and painful surge of power came up around her, and it was the last thing she felt before darkness claimed her.


	3. Chapter 3: Meant To Say Goodbye

**Disclaimer:** _"Dragon Age: Origins" and all its expansions and additional content is the property of Bioware and EA Games. Large portions of written content within the game, as well as Dragon's Age: The Stolen Throne, and Dragon's Age: Calling, are the creative genius of one David Gaider. Original scenarios and characters are used under the creative license of the writer, ItalianEmpress1985. No profit is being made and the following story is for entertainment purposes only_

**Words From The Author: **_So I guess 'officially' that the events within the game are suppose to take place over the course of a year. I don't know about you, but that feels too long a time to me, so I've gone with a timeframe that my mind feels more comfortable with. So while the events between The Joining and the defeat of the Archdemon didn't take place over a few weeks, it wasn't a YEAR either. More the case of half that, so five - six months. So you'll see the companions refer to those events as 'those months in passing' and such._

_'Stone Prisoner' was never anything I got around to playing, so I didn't include Shale in the companions for this story._

_I haven't seen much of what the language of Ferelden is called other than 'Ferelden' but that seems strange to me. If you lived in England you wouldn't say you spoke 'England' so for the purposes of this story, it is has become Fereldish. :p_

_Thank you for stopping in. Watch out for low flying dragons!_

* * *

_**Chapter Three:**_

_**Meant To Say Goodbye**_

* * *

_Even with our fists held high,_

_It never would've worked out right._

_We were always meant to say goodbye._

_- __Kelly Clarkson_

* * *

**S**unlight filtered into the room, harsh against Gwyneth's slowly opening eyes. As she regained her consciousness, she almost wished she hadn't; every bruise and overworked muscle was brought into awareness. At least she could be glad that her cuts seemed to have healed.

A sharp twinge in her skull had the young woman seething through her teeth, head pressed back into the small army of pillows behind her.

"Don't you _dare_ try to get out of that bed yet." Wynne's voice came, full of warning, but a comforting regard as well. One that reminded Gwyneth, more than faintly, of her old governess, Nan Melda.

Noble gave an excited bark and was up from where he'd been napping in an instant. The mage tried to keep the mabari hound back, but there was nothing for it, as the chestnut colored dog bounded up onto the coverlet with Gwyneth.

"Oh get down, Noble!" She scolded him, but only half meant it.

He whined once, licked her face and settled onto the floor next to the bed, panting happily.

Wynne rolled her eyes at the canine, though at least he wasn't filthy anymore, '_and hadn't he fought that bath but good_!' "He's just happy to see you up, as am I." She smiled kindly, the light etching of lines on her aged face doing nothing to erase the beauty that still remained there. Blue eyes twinkled with a life undimmed as she stepped closer, clean mage robes swishing around her legs.

Gwyneth turned to reach out her hand, Noble quick to nudge it with his nose, eliciting a pleased grin from his mistress. She remembered Alistair first asking about how he'd come to have that name. _"I named him Noble, for he is noble indeed."_

With a sigh, she faced Wynne again. "He's a good boy." A light palm pressed against her forehead and she eyed the older woman. "I'm amazed to be intact, your work I take it?" At a modest nod from Wynne, the future queen smiled. "I've always been in awe of your healing talents. _Some_ within the Chantry would say your kind are capable only of destructive magic, but I've seen proof to the contrary."

"_Some_ in the Chantry would say Thedas is a flat cube and if you sail out onto the ocean far enough, that you'll fall off the end of it, but I hardly think _that's_ true either." Wynne's face maintained a playful smirk, and in that one could see the beautiful woman and wizened mage both. "Now then, let me see to you. Any bruises still incredibly tender?"

"Does my brain count? I feel like it's just sloshing about in there, banging against my skull." This came complete with a groan.

"You knocked yourself silly up on that roof, and here you are, three days abed and finally rousing. The worst part is over. We were all more than a bit worried for a time, but it seems you are fine now." Wynne leaned forward to a press a cool, dry hand against the woman's head. "No fever, that's good. It's probably just a headache, a bad one mind you, but nothing to be concerned about. I've got some chamomile and teberen root I can give you in a mug of tea if you like."

Gwyneth nodded, but reached out to clamp a hand around Wynne's forearm as the other woman made to leave. "_Three days_?"

A light chuckle from the mage. "More than a beauty rest, hmm?" A smile, and a proud one. "Alistair, he did very well addressing the nobles at the conference he held. Congratulated all of us, but thanked _you_ up, down and sideways. He has developed a knack for speeches. You were introduced as his queen _officially_, so don't be surprised if you start hearing some 'Highness' around here."

Gwyneth groaned. "Where is 'here' exactly?"

"The royal palace."

"This . . . ah, this wasn't _Anora's_ room, was it?" A note of cautious curiosity entered Gwyneth's voice, eyes searching out the contours and furnishings of her current quarters. The idea of laying abed in the same place that Anora once had, left Gwyneth with an uncomfortable pit in the middle of her gut.

"I don't think so, but it isn't as if I'm privy to every little detail about this place." Blue eyes winked with the light, the upper lip of that wizened mouth curling to let free a wisp of humor. "Surely you didn't ask for me only to have me recite the 'where to's and 'how for's of your new residence?"

"No, no of course not." Gwyneth's smiles were always simple, or very nearly so. They never quite reached her eyes the same way that her laughter might have. There was a lingering darkness behind those silver irises, and Howe's death had done little to erase it. One corner of her mouth went up as her thoughts shifted. "I . . . misjudged Alistair. I thought he hadn't possession of the skills necessary for The Crown. . . but, he _does_, doesn't he?"

"Yes, it would seem so, but he'll still need _you_. I'm under no illusions to the contrary."

Gwyneth only nodded, careful enough not to jar her skull. "And the others?"

"Morrigan left before any of us had a chance to speak with her. I don't even know where she went." A knowing glance was sent Gwyneth's way, as Wynne noticed the deep set to her mouth at that news. It wasn't unexpected, it seemed. "_You_ wouldn't happen to know why she left so abruptly, would you?"

"No." Short and terse. "What about the rest of them?"

Wynne sighed, thinking back to what she'd been told. "They're all still here, for the time being. Sten is anxious to leave, I can tell. The Blight is over and he has to get back and report what he has seen to his . . . what was that word again?"

"Arishok . . . I think."

"Yes, that was it. So he will not be here long, I don't imagine. Oghren is soon headed off with some foul mouthed dwarven woman he picked up, he _says_ at an inn near Lake Calenhad, but who knows really. It could've just been down at a local tavern." Wynne scoffed, thinking back at the foul, rude dwarf. He had _some_ charms though, like his home-brew ale. '_Marvelous!' _"Zevran said something about traveling, still worried his former assassins guild will be after him. Though he won't say as much."

"And Leliana?" Gwyneth braced herself, ready to hear some saddening news.

"She's still here." Alistair's voice came from the doorway, and both women looked over in surprise.

The man himself stood rigid in posture, not even leaning against the door jamb. Someone had helped him dress, if the style of his attire was any indication. Everything was impeccable, and for a moment Gwyneth didn't even recognize him. The golden armor she imagined he'd worn to impress those at the conference was absent, replaced with a fine embroidered tunic of rich blue, the breeches of just as nice a quality, boots polished as if they'd never seen even a hint of dirt.

"We didn't hear you come in." Gwyn, always one to state the obvious.

Wynne straightened her back, moving away from the wide bed. "Well then, I'll go have that tea made, and leave you two to talk."

As soon as she'd arrived she was gone, Alistair watching the door for a time even after Wynne had left. "Subtle, isn't she?" He smirked in humor.

The room was all but bathed in the sunlight of late morning, and from Gwyneth's grimace she wasn't so pleased with it. In but a few strides, Alistair was across the room, and drawing the curtains so that only slivers of light escaped inside, to caress the smooth wood of the floor in long lines.

"Better?" He asked.

"Very much so, thank you." She nodded, that small smile telling him she was well, more than the fact that she looked fairly hale.

Propped up with pillows and wearing a ridiculously frilly and overly conservative nightgown, she should've looked like a little pampered girl, but she didn't.

Alistair recalled meeting her for the first time, and his complaints to Duncan.

"_Really? You think she has 'potential'? Because she seems like a spoiled little brat to me. Only _just_ twenty, turned last month, she told me. She's a _child_."_

"_She's your companion now. You'd best get used to it." Duncan's kind but stern face, had held a grin of amusement. "Besides, you've only been twenty for four months yourself."_

The would-be Templar had never thought he would come to call that 'spoiled brat' a friend, and later, a sister in arms. Now he was soon to call her his queen, his wife. Life had a funny way of pulling terrible pranks on people. For all that, he looked at her then, really looked and saw not a young girl, but a woman with more poise in her little finger than most had in their whole body. She could've been queen already, crown or no, sat there like the watcher of all Ferelden, one brow raised.

"So . . . Leliana . . ." It was as delicate as Gwyneth could possibly be on the subject.

Noble, all but forgotten, raised his head up, ears twitching as he looked between the two humans. Perhaps wondering about their silly ways and guarded words.

"She's leaving soon, I think. I haven't spoken to her much, since . . . well, for awhile, but I can just tell. She has this look on her face, like she's already far away." He dropped his head, dark blonde hair looking to have a hint of red from the way the sunlight hit it.

"Alistair, why do you two not come to an arrangement? I would have no objections to her staying here, perhaps as a court advisor." Gwyneth spread her hands across her lap, moving to clasp them together as she looked up at the scowling man

"And what? Have her as my mistress, so the people at court can gossip about her? Maybe even have children with her, _more _bastards I sired?" His voice was raising and he had to clamp down on it, face visibly taxed with the effort.

'_He's going to go there, really? After we agreed never to discuss it again?_' Gwyneth's cheeks grew warm and reddened with heated anger, but at the dejected look on Alistair's face, her own fell. This wasn't about her wayward feelings for another woman, who could never return them, and of whom she would never see again. This wasn't about that same woman, swollen with Alistair's ill begotten seed. It wasn't about Gwyneth at all, but selfishness was a hard thing to let go of.

It occurred to her then, how changed they both were. Just past the cusp of adolescence when they had begun, and all those months had seen them grow into adults, the price paid for that transition, a high one. Fighting darkspawn, the weight of a Grey Warden's duties, time on the road, where fine things were faded memories, or rare treasured keepsakes hidden safely in her pack.

All of it was now as much the past as she had begun to think her nobility had become. Ser Gilmore had once told her that he heard becoming a Grey Warden was the end of your old life, that you could never go back. He was wrong.

Now she was to embrace that noble mantle again, and she wondered if duty would bade her to set those months on the road behind her, like so much unwanted baggage. Gwyneth couldn't deny some pleasure in that, in forgetting, but she doubted it would be that simple. In the end, neither she nor Alistair could run from who they were, Grey Wardens and nobility both. Despite his claim that there was little 'noble' about him, his father possessed the same long line of blue blood as her own. A person carried the legacy of their father, and both of theirs had been the pinnacle of nobility.

So here they were.

Gwyneth could say a lot of things to him. Things like asking him why he cared what anyone thought, but of _course_ he cared, or at least he knew he should. It wasn't as if kings hadn't had mistresses before, but maybe Alistair wanted to be a better man than that, a better king. Even if it hurt him, even if it hurt Leliana.

Remembered words from Wynne came to the forefront of the young woman's mind. '_There is joy, even in self sacrifice. If you put others before yourself, then their well-being is yours and their happiness is your happiness_.' The mage had been talking about duty, and perhaps that was exactly what Alistair was doing. Putting the people before himself, before his love for Leliana.

"I . . . I understand." Her smile was light and cautious, and his distance was near enough that she could reach out and touch him easily, fingers resting on his wrist. "But you should go speak with her. Do not let your last words be full of bile and anger." '_Such as mine were filled with deep regret, and the onus of doing something you _know_ is wrong,' _that silent voice added.

'_Last words. That's what they would be wouldn't they_?' Alistair sighed, heavy and weighted as all his decisions seemed to be anymore. For a moment he entertained what Gwyneth was suggesting, keeping Leliana with him, but even if the bard agreed, he knew _he_ couldn't.

Leliana's life had not been an easy one, she'd been molded to be both a spy and an assassin. Those months in her company he had come to see that it wasn't who she really was. She was sweet, girlish, easily pleased, frequently excited, and so very warm of heart.

Her old mentor had really run the girl through a rack, both under the physical abuse she'd suffered while imprisoned in Orlais, and later the torture of an emotional sort. Bereft of an affection Leliana had assumed was real, and was little more than a ruse while the woman used her. Alistair might have known a thing or two about feeling used. Leliana deserved more than to be a king's mistress, so much more, and he wouldn't selfishly keep her for his own.

"I . . . I don't know what to say." They had him dressed as a king, but he didn't feel like one. He was back in front of that tower, unsure of the steps he should take, frightened of where they would lead. He needed Gwyneth's hand at his back, and there she was.

"Alistair, you say goodbye."

* * *

The windows were set high on the wall in the library, tall lined shelves of books catching the dancing light from the painted glass. The colors played over the tomes, both new and old, and finally found their way to the bard nearly hiding amongst them, running long fingers over their bindings.

Books had a smell, sometimes musty, sometimes like fresh papyrus, but it was always a comfort to Leliana, something that was hers alone, a facet of her personality that no one really knew. Not Marjolaine, and not even Alistair.

There were so many in the library, so many that the former spy would never read, never even look at. Light blue eyes were nearly shuttered closed, the mind lain behind them buzzing with thoughts enough to keep her well occupied.

She'd heard that Gwyneth was awake, a small sigh of relief escaping her at the news, but it was just that. Leliana couldn't bring herself to go see the noblewoman, couldn't look at the face that would be there before Alistair's as they exchanged vows of matrimony. She could not claim any real closeness to Gwyneth, the other woman's demeanor rarely allowed that, but Leliana _did _care. Yet not enough to be able to stomach seeing her then, it would've been too much for her heart to bear.

Leliana wasn't sure why she remained. They'd defeated the Blight, the vision that had set her on that path had reached its promised conclusion. She'd helped to save the world from the darkness the Maker had bade her to dispel, and there was nothing for her in Ferelden anymore.

"Someone told me you were here." That voice, so achingly familiar, came from her back and she whirled around.

"What do _you_ want?" Leliana hoped the words were as cold as she wanted them to be, so _he_ might hurt as _she_ hurt, even if there was a time, not too long ago that she would have never wanted to hurt him.

There was something inevitable about all of it, a feeling of falling down into a canyon with naught but air beneath her, but it could not ease her heart break and her anger at how unfair all of it was. That the Maker would bless her with love, only to take it away, and that Alistair would be able to look her in the face and say such words of parting as he'd done. Yet, for all her grieved vengeance, there was a hitch in her voice, and she suspected Alistair noticed it as much as _she_ did.

He peered around at those tall shelves, but the room was laid out so that there were no hidden nooks. An open library, to be sure.

"If you think someone will overhear us, I doubt it. Everyone has gone for the celebration out in the courtyard. Just a few servants now." Leliana's voice dipped low. "And who should care for those that are common?"

"Leliana, I don't . . . you know that I would _never_ think of you as _common_! For Maker's sake!" Exasperated, mostly with himself, Alistair's broad shoulders slumped.

"No, don't do that! The Maker's name should never be used like that!" The tone went up, her eyes fierce. A sad cast replaced the anger and she bit on the corner of her full lower lip. "Besides, it is true, no? I am common and you are not." The richness of her Orlesian accent was heavier when she was upset, her Fereldish harder to form, both in her mind and on her tongue.

"I . . . I wish things had turned out differently." He ran a hand through his hair, the shortened strands looking nearly as red as Leliana's in that strange colored light. Dust motes caught in the beams of sun, as if painting a haze to the scene taking place in the library.

"So do I, but they didn't." The Orlais-born-Ferelden reached out for him then, her palm against his cheek and he leaned into it with a sigh. "I cannot stay here. To watch you marry _her_. I just can't."

"She thought you might want to stay on as a court advisor, so we could . . . well . . ." Alistair let the words trail off. He hadn't meant to mention it at all, his decision had been made, but there it was. His mouth five steps ahead of his mind, like always.

Leliana watched him, the silent question hung in the dusty air between them. Her hand fell back down to her side, as his voice thickened around his next words.

"I wouldn't ask for that, I _can't_. You as a mistress, our love reduced to sneaking around, pretending there is nothing going on and learning to live with unkind whispers. You deserve better than that." He finally was able to meet her gaze again, his own dark with his emotions.

The bard sighed, and sent him a melancholic smile. "And what do _you_ deserve?"

"I never deserved you, I don't think." His smile matched hers, unhappy and resigned. "As for what I want, I want to be a good king. I . . . I don't know that I can, but I _want_ to."

"You will. It is as I told you before, complete fools are made kings all the time, and you are no fool. Besides, now you'll have Gwyneth to help you." The bitterness of the other woman's name could not be contained, and Leliana bit down on it, clenching her eyelids together, hot moisture sneaking out anyway.

Silence again, heavy and cloying, and she spoke first.

"I will go back to Orlais, yes, I think this is best." A chocking sob nearly stole away her words, but she took a deep breath, not able to glance up at Alistair's face. She felt his eyes on her, but her own went to the floor as she tried to compose herself, trying to find some inner strength. "I will look for Marjolaine. She is my unresolved problem, and I can't leave it that way." Though that seemed like a lifetime ago, before she ever knew that someone named Alistair existed.

Leliana couldn't have crossed the chasm that separated them, even if physically they were near enough to touch, to embrace. She could feel all her love for him bubbling up inside, threatening to take over her mind. If she remained there, she knew what might happen. She shook her head, brushing a stray wisp of copper hair from her forehead. "I must leave . . . I . . . tell Gwyneth that . . . tell her that . . . I'm glad she is better."

"Will I ever see you again?" The words were choked out over the thickness of Alistair's tongue, the shadow in his gaze so deep then, that no light could reach it.

Leliana shook her head, moisture falling at the corners of those crystal blue eyes. "No, I think maybe that wouldn't be a good idea." She turned away, looking past that library, past that moment and out to where her new life was waiting. Tears spilled out, despite her attempts to hold them back.

Before anymore words were said, Alistair had taken her face in his hands and his lips were on hers, tasting of the salty wetness spilling from her eyes.

"I love you, I love you _so_ much. I never wanted this, I _never_ did. Maker, I _love_ you!" Everything he had wanted and wished for was in that kiss, heart wrenching in the face of unfulfilled dreams, promises left empty as he took a throne he never wanted. He said her name over and over, desperate to make the moment last an eternity . . . but then it was done and he felt as if his body was encased in ice, so cold and empty did he feel inside.

Leliana looked up at him, soaking in every feature, committing it to memory as much as she could with her vision blurred, "And _I _love _you_, until the last day I draw breath. " She kissed him just once more and left before her grief made it impossible.

"Goodbye." Alistair said to the empty library, the scent of Andraste's Grace lingering, the only proof that Leliana had ever been there. He leaned against a set of shelves and wept into his hands.

* * *

Gwyneth shielded her eyes with a flat palm, her forefinger pressed just above her brow, as she watched the courtyard. The edge of the thick curtains brushed her cheek, as she peered through the tiny opening she had made. Their faint velvet touch was like the caress of a mother long dead and the teyrna pressed her teeth to her lip.

"Oh, Mama, would that you could see me through this. I know that I shall make you proud as I take my place beside our new king, but there is such pain in that, such that I fear it will _never_ pass. Worse, I am not alone in my melancholy. This betrothal is the bell toll of new life for Ferelden, but the death knell for the heart of its sovereign."

A whisper fell from her tongue. "The destination was not reached by the road I had imagined. How did it come to this?"

Leliana's copper head caught her gaze, though in all honesty the noblewoman _had_ been looking for it. She stiffened as the bard turned, maybe feeling watched, and looked up, but she didn't seem to spot Gwyneth.

A breath she hadn't realized she was holding escaped and Gwyneth felt relieved and guilty all at once. The bard hadn't come to see her, and there was much to be said in that, but much that the young woman had expected. Had the situations been reversed, she wasn't at all certain that she would've handled it much differently.

As she watched the Orlesian move away from the courtyard, she spoke out loud in her room as if the bard could've heard her, even though there was no way she would.

"I wish I could say that I will love Alistair, give you some comfort in that, but I won't, Leliana. I _cannot _love him as you did, I never will, but maybe in that is your comfort, because just as _I_ cannot love _him_, neither can _he_ love _me_. Duty will be our only love."


	4. Chapter 4: Coronation of Paper Flowers

**Disclaimer:** _"Dragon Age: Origins" and all its expansions and additional content is the property of Bioware and EA Games. Large portions of written content within the game, as well as Dragon's Age: The Stolen Throne, and Dragon's Age: Calling, are the creation of David Gaider. 'Parade of Paper Flowers' belongs to Aerilith Sommers. Original scenarios and characters are used under the creative license of the writer, ItalianEmpress1985. No profit is being made and the following story is for entertainment purposes only_

**Words From The Author: **_So I replayed through the human noble origin, I needed some stuff for this story, and I got a pleasant surprise. Leliana compliments Alistair and said if the PC had hadn't made their move on Alistair, she would've :p Maybe I'm not so far off the mark, eh? ;) Actually I think it was more for Leliana to cover for herself and her own feelings for the PC, but I'm alright with that._

_In this story the events of the game took place between October of year 9:30, and April of year 9:31. I've kept the months the same as our calendar and the week days as well._

_My French is very . . . well, non existent :p I used Bing Translator for the few French bits in this story. They were used for the Orlesian language, but I guess if it isn't exact, that's okay too, since Orlais is only 'like' France. :p This chapter: J'en ai assez! = I've had enough!_

_There's something in this chapter that happened a bit differently in the game, but I like it better this way. So I went with it._

_Thank you for stopping in. Watch out for low flying dragons!_

* * *

_**Chapter Four:**_

_**Coronation of Paper Flowers**_

* * *

_Never forget that you shall be your own ruler._

_Your legacy is yours, never theirs._

_This, my son, is my gift to you and a curse it may be._

_- Lord Levwern - 'Parade of Paper Flowers'_

* * *

**April 22'nd, 9:31 Dragon Age**

"**S**ire, now you must stop fidgeting so, I'll never get this cloak on straight." The manservant blew a strand of hair from his reddening face, looking at the man he was trying to dress. "Milord, If you are to be king then you _must_ get comfortable in your own attire." In his late thirties, Degare still had the thick accent of his birth village in Orlais. The 'king' coming out more like 'keeng' He had served Cailan as well and at least _that_ king had _liked_ to look his finest, _this_ one was going to be a chore.

"Don't you think I know that? I just . . . it's so _itchy_." Alistair wiggled his shoulders, ignoring the glower from the flustered man buzzing around him like some kind of angry wasp. He wasn't used to this. He'd never had an overt care of his appearance beyond bathing for some meals, and keeping his hair in order. There was never such . . . fuss.

Alistair fidgeted again, face scrunched up in his discomfort and he tugged the collar away from his neck.

"J'en ai assez!" Degare threw his hands in the air, face red and pulse beating in his temples. Either he wasn't afraid of earning the wrath of the new king, or he was too flustered to care. Likely the latter. "I cannot work like this!" The manservant stomped from the room, cursing down the hall.

"I can dress _myself _anyway!" Alistair huffed, though Degare was long gone. He undid the buttons of the decorative vest they had him wearing, feeling like a turkey that someone was trying to make look like a peacock. He went over to the window in his quarters and peered out at the palace grounds, swallowing nervously. All those people, and they were going to be looking at him and expecting some grandiose speech of acceptance as the crown was placed on his head. He'd done it before, 'kingly' speeches, and Wynne thought he was getting good at them, but it didn't make anything feel easier to _him_.

_'This is it_.' The day had come when he was Alistair the chantry boy-turned Grey Warden no longer. He was Alistair, the Grey Warden-turned king.

A week had gone by, and all of his former companions were gone except for Gwyn and Wynne. The latter had chosen to stay with Alistair, to help guide both himself and Gwyneth in any way that she could, with a closeness developed during their travels together that had not abated. Alistair had to admit that he wanted Wynne to do what she thought was best, but he was very happy that she'd still be around, though not likely to fish his socks from her bag, or help him mend shirts anymore. He smiled at those memories, pleasant in the feeling of family that they had brought with them.

The former of the two women _had_ been someone he might've called sister, and he certainly cared for her like family, but he could feel them pulling away from each other. His love for Leliana wasn't the only thing sacrificed on the pyre of their new union, it would seem.

Gwyneth had made herself absent for that last week, always off doing something else, so he wouldn't see her. He'd thought they would tour the city together, taking in the damage and assessing what needed to be repaired first, but she wasn't there; her own assessment taken privately. For the longest time he imagined she might've been giving him space to mourn the loss of Leliana, _but how much space did he need_? It would have been better to have a friend there to ease his sorrow, but Gwyneth was nowhere to be found.

A knock at the door, a young woman's timid voice drifting through the wood. "Pardon, Highness, but I h-heard t-that Master Degare took a . . . holiday from assisting you."

Alistair sighed heavily, readying himself for a different servant and another barrage of fussing. "Yeah, sure, come in." He turned around, expecting the young-sounding servant, and she _was_ there. A blonde elfess whose hands were clasped before her demurely, but beside her, was his future queen. Agog for a moment, he said nothing.

"Her Grace was worried you might be late for the coronation." The young maidservant beamed up at the woman she referenced, craning her neck to make up for their difference in height. She had made a perfect recitation of the lady's words, she knew, and felt pride in that.

Gwyneth smiled at her. "Yes, thank you Siofra, but I can handle matters from here. You are dismissed." She waved her hand to intone such a command as the petite elfess curtsied and left the room, shutting the door as she did so. "Siofra is to be my Lady in Waiting." She said, by way of explanation.

The selection of an elven lady in waiting wasn't _utterly_ unheard of certainly, Anora had one after all, but Alistair couldn't help but think Gwyneth might have done so to cause a stir. She did like to do that, after all. He might have said so if he wasn't so surprised by her unexpected appearance.

"Gwyn! You look . . . You look very nice." He managed, a nervous smile tugging at his mouth as he took in the sight of her, hands folded against her sternum as she watched him with one dark red brow raised. Her gown was lovely and the color was the same as his own attire.

"Thank you."

"I haven't seen you." Sad brown eyes found her face, watching as it turned down.

"Yes, well, I thought you might like your privacy." Gwyneth cleared her throat. "And . . . I - I should be honest. I _thought_ I was past it, I _thought_ I was fine, but I _wasn't_. I had a hard time looking at you, thinking about that night you spent with Morrigan . . ." No more words were needed on that score, they both knew what she was talking about.

"Hard time? But _you_ influenced me to do it!" He didn't understand how she could hold that against him, when all three of them had decided on the matter together. Then he saw the blush in her cheeks, the way her gaze looked at everything but him. Some people would've said Alistair wasn't too perceptive, but they would've been wrong. Realization dawned on his face. "You and Morrigan. Morrigan and you . . . I . . . I should've known!"

Gwyneth was shocked, and ready to start spluttering a denial, _but what was the use_? She'd practically given it away with her words, and that secret had been hers to bear for too long. She nodded slowly, embarrassed in her honesty. "Yes . . . well, not exactly. It wasn't me _and_ Morrigan, it was just me. She didn't know for a long time, and then when she _did_ know . . . my feelings were not returned."

The woman made a living portrait there, straight, staid and utterly sad. In that moment Alistair knew a note of shame for himself; all that time and he thought he was the only one mourning a lost love. Then there was anger. _Why hadn't Gwyn told him_? But he might not have agreed to things that night, and she likely knew it. His feelings settled into sympathy, undeniable guilt wrought into it. Even if the decision had been made in three parts, he still felt responsible. "I'm sorry."

She'd been neglecting him, she knew that, and despite that, _he_ was apologizing to _her_. He did not appeared phased by the fact that Gwyneth's lost-love had been for another _woman_, and there were many who would not have reacted so calmly. Gwyneth forced a smile, shrugging away a love that was never hers, and facing the man that she would soon call 'husband' "Do not be, such was never meant for more than dreaming. Besides, it hardly matters _now_, does it?" She didn't expect an answer but he gave her a smile for one besides.

A sniff, the corners of her eyes stinging and she made herself push all that aside. "Well, enough of that. If the fact that you are not yet ready for your coronation is any indication, I take it things aren't going well?"

Arl Eamon had wanted Gwyneth to be Alistair's queen for the reputation and influence her title and name brought with them, but also she was to tutor Alistair in the ways of court, but so far Gwyneth hadn't shown any incentive or wish to do so. Not that he could blame her really, he hated the idea of it too. He wondered if today that was changing.

"It's this vest and this shirt . . . at least the breeches are comfortable, but then they want me to wear a cloak as well! I think the royal armor was a lot easier to put on." Alistair bemoaned his fate, more than willing to face another army of darkspawn instead of the frightening nobles outside.

"You need to show the people that you can be elegant, that you don't need some big suit of arms or a mail hauberk to be impressive." She came towards him across the warmed wood of the floor. The long weight of the gown scrapped against the floorboards, a _swish-swish_ noise that made her sound like she was wearing water.

"But I'm not! I'm _not_ elegant. I'm a big, stupid, clumsy oaf! You told me as much, yourself, when you met me!" Alistair ran long fingers through his golden hair.

"I was wrong." She smiled, feeling uncharacteristically shy as he looked at her sharply. It wasn't often that she would admit she was mistaken, especially not to him. She composed herself, clearing her throat, her intent set. "Surely the man who faced down an archdemon and its horde can handle some fancy coronation vestments." Her silver eyes glittered slyly, made more so by the wicked curve of her lips. She was teasing him into relaxation, and she could see the moment he realized that break on his face, a smile sent back her way.

Brown orbs lightened, a merry twinkle lit the hidden flecks of blue within them. "Have you always been so teasing?"

"Of a surety." A smirk followed. That morning she'd still been stewing towards him, but just as easily he warmed her to his charms again, and not all of them were boyish. There was a reason they had moved past those bad impressions and onto friendship. "Let me at you then, can't keep the masses waiting." At his groan she pushed his shoulders back with her hands. "Stand straight . . . no, not _that_ straight, you look like a statue. Alright, yes that's better. Now try to hold still."

"It's itchy."

"I can fix that."

"You _can_?"

"Do not doubt me, ser, I'm a Cousland, we can do anything . . . besides singing." There was a chuckle and she glanced up at him, eyes having drifted to his attire. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing."

"Tell me."

"I just remember you singing to yourself that morning in the Frostback Mountains. I was looking for firewood and there you were, off on your own trying to croak your way through the Ballad of Ser Clemence."

"Croaking? _Croaking_? Hmph! I _thought_ I heard someone snickering in the bushes."

"I don't snicker!" Alistair affected an affronted look, but relented at the dagger slits of her gaze. "Alright, maybe I snicker. Oh, hey, hey! What are you doing?" For a moment he thought she was going to strangle him, a swatch of white gauzy fabric wound over one thin hand.

"Relax, _Your Highness_, it's just a gentleman's scarf. My father used to put them under his collar if the fabric was too rough on him. My mother helped him mostly, though we had servants, it was a sign of respect to help to dress one's husband, but I did it a few times. Likely your manservant would've put this on if you asked him, it was in his basket of accessories here." Gwyneth was making a puffed shape with it, overlapping the fabric but leaving enough excess to work with.

"I couldn't have asked _him_ anything. He was really ill-tempered for a royal servant. Damn Orlesian!" Alistair scowled, but then Leliana's face came to mind and he winced. Gwyn noticed, able to read his thoughts plainly by the emotion he couldn't hide.

"She wouldn't be mad, she said she considered herself a Ferelden citizen. But, Orlesians aren't _all_ so terrible. My own grandmother was from Orlais. My mother's mother." Gwyneth wasn't about to let him start thinking about Leliana again, not _that_ day of all days.

"I didn't know that. Isn't your grandfather famous for standing up against Orlais? You also said your father served with King Mar . . . with _my_ father during the uprising." Alistair was still getting used to referring to the past king as his sire.

"Both are very true, but my mother was half Fereldish and half Orlesian, and my father learned early that there was a benefit from every country on Thedas, and there is much to be learned of ones enemies. I'm sure that same understanding was true of my Grandfather Davenport and it isn't unheard of for those that seem unsuited to find themselves married. Besides, I owe my perfect nose to my Orlesian grandmother and her bloodline." Gwyneth scrunched the object of her self appreciation.

"_Perfect_ huh? Oh I don't know. It looks a little long to _me_. Ow!" Alistair's smirk turned into a scowl when his betrothed hit him. "What was that for?"

"You were wiggling. Stay still." A twitch of the nose that might not be perfect, belying the severity set on her face, humor dancing in her eyes. She tucked the scarf down into Alistair's collar, lithe fingers working quickly. On his face it was clearly written that he was thinking those same hands could still decide to strangle him. Gwyneth bit down on her lower lip to keep from laughing at him and breaking her concentration. "There we are. Oh yes! Very nice. I'll have to fight the noble ladies to keep them from lining up outside your quarters."

Alistair turned to admire himself, and though he certainly didn't have Gwyneth's well noted conceit, he had to admit, he didn't look half bad. "It's . . . okay. Really though, how would all those ladies even _get_ to my quarters? The palace is guarded."

Gwyneth clucked her tongue. "You underestimate the determination of a noblewoman on the hunt for a desirable bed mate. Hey, don't look at _me_, I never did anything like that, I just . . . _heard_ things." At the questionable gaze on Alistair's face, her own was set into hard lines. "It's true! I'll have you know that I am a _chaste_ lady."

"Hah! The way you were flirting with Bann Teagan, and what about Zevran? You would bat your eyelashes at him in a second if you thought it would get you some extra lessons on dual wielding." Alistair wiggled his eyebrows at her, reclaiming the easy sibling-esque banter they had acquired during their travels.

"Your uncle was a . . . misunderstanding. I'm hardly to blame for the fact that he took my asking after his family, to be an interested question on his married state. As for Zevran, it isn't my fault if I'm as gorgeous as he said I am. The Maker made me this way, so why not use that to my advantage?" Gwyneth crossed her arms over her chest.

"Modesty, thy name is Gwyneth." Alistair snorted in sarcasm. "So you're saying you _never_ did _anything_ with any of the boys you must have flirted with back home?"

"Of course not! A few kisses here and there, some light touching, but my mother made it _quite_ clear that it was my duty to save myself for marriage."

Alistair had only meant to tease her as she so often teased him, but it hit him rather starkly that she was saying she was a virgin. That she was to be one until she was married, and _he_ was the one marrying her.

The room got about a hundred degrees warmer, or at least it felt like it, specifically around his face. "Ah . . . Y-you're a . . .? But, well, _I'm_ going to be your . . . " He waved his hand about in the air, unable to make himself say anything more. His 'adventures' with Leliana had taught him a lot, and he could no longer claim to be so innocent, but now the tables were turned. _He_ was the one that was experienced, and _Gwyneth_ was the innocent party. '_How did _this _happen?'_ For a few moments he told himself she had to be lying, but no, he could recognize the embarrassment on her face. It'd been on his own, once upon a time.

Gwyneth rolled her eyes. "You better be more articulate than _this_ today, and don't look so sick, I'm only expecting you to _wed_ me, not _bed_ me."

"Good Maker, Gwyn! How can you just say it right out like that?" Flustered, he started pulling at his collar, a new discomfort ailing him.

"Well . . . there's no point in denying the obvious, and though I _am_ a virgin, it doesn't mean I'm naive. I've no delusions about this marriage, of that I can assure you." She let him take that in and think about it before she was on the move again.

"Come now, we have to go down and meet with the Grand Cleric. She'll have your cloak waiting, and she's a woman of little patience." Gwyneth could attest to that personally, having been under the elder lady's instruction for two days straight on the little details of the not-so little coronation.

Even a practiced teyrn's daughter had things to learn about how to present one as king, and to be presented as a princess-in-waiting, a title set upon one that was going to be a queen. She knew Alistair had suffered the same, practicing how to talk, walk, how to sit, where you enunciated your words, which direction you faced when you kneeled. The thought of it was enough to steal away her raging embarrassment at the mention of her maidenhood.

Alistair stopped to look at them both in the mirror, side by side, Gwyneth's hand on the crook of his elbow as she made for them to leave the room. "Wow." There was amazement in his voice that halted Gwyn's steps.

"What is it?"

"I just didn't expect . . . We look rather grand together." A sideways smile, faraway.

Gwyneth smiled back. "Yes, that we do, so let's go impress those that doubt us."

* * *

The Grand Cleric was a severe looking woman, and when she smiled, Alistair thought her face might crack from the action. She placed the cloak over his shoulders, clasping it as she all but glared at him, going over the procession again.

They would be announced on the grand stairs, then they had to travel with a well-trussed retinue, a brigade of Denerim's knights. Alistair's knights as they soon would be. After that procession was over with, they would return to the palace where a speech would be made on the stairs, followed by the actual coronation in the throne room. The whole affair went through a full repetition in Alistair's skull, his sweaty palms slick with the anxiety it caused.

The sunlight was bright, an early spring sun that promised brighter days ahead. He supposed it was a good omen, if you believed in that sort of thing. At least he was grateful it wasn't raining, to leave him drenched and more uncomfortable than he felt already.

Gwyneth was soaking up the attention as much as the warm rays, face bright and smiling on those that watched, held back by guards to make way for the beginning of the procession. She was every bit the dutiful wife-to-be, arm curled around Alistair's, as the other was left free to wave delicately. The young Siofra had her skirts held up while Gwyneth walked, keeping them from dragging on the ground. It would've been easier if Gwyn had adopted the customary straight skirts of Ferelden, but as always she wanted to show off in style. Even when she'd been fully armored, Alistair could recall that nearly everything was done with more than a bit of flourish.

The ornery Orlesian of earlier had composed himself, looking and feeling as if he was getting too old for all this 'nonsense' Nonetheless, Degare bowed to Alistair, holding his cloak in much the same fashion as Gwyneth's gown was held aloft. He nodded his head smartly at the soon-to-be-sovereign.

"Citizens of Ferelden, on this Blessed Day of Coronation, make a path for His Greatness, Prince Alistair Theirin and Her Grace, Teyrna Gwyneth Cousland." Feminine, if not elderly, the Grand Cleric's voice rang out clear and loud.

There was no need to announce such. The guards kept anyone from barring the way, a clear path made down the cobbles for the royal party. Formality and tradition, however, required everything to be precise. Foreigners would accuse those of Ferelden of being too 'common' or rough and tumble. For those that lived there, the more recent ages had brought a distinct culture of propriety to the lands. In generations yet to come, it was often said that Ferelden would eventually become as mired in tradition as Tevinter and Orlais, but who could say if that was true or not.

Stepping up onto the cover-less carriage, Alistair had a moment of surrealism, where he thought this couldn't possibly be his life. It must've been a dream, but when he blinked, everything was still there.

He took a seat on a thick decorative pillow, golden tassels clinking with the metal beads that hung at their ends. Almost slouching forward, he caught the gaze of the wicked cleric and straightened his back so quickly he nearly got whiplash. Gwyneth still had his arm, seated beside him. She slid her hand down along its length to take _his_ hand, hidden as the action was from the setup of the carriage.

"Relax." Whispered and gentle. She squeezed his palm, and he squeezed back. If ever he was to thank the Maker for anything today, it would be for the friend next to him.

Some people just weren't interested in watching frippery and nobility at its finest, so one couldn't honestly say that _all_ of Denerim had shown up to watch the procession, but there were enough of them. None of the commoners were allowed inside the palace gates without being on official business, but they were waiting outside them, eyes squinting in the sunlight. Alistair knew jealously for those that wouldn't ever have to do anything like this, but it wasn't _too_ horrible. He'd be a liar if he didn't admit to some male pride at some of the envious glances from those who were eyeing Gwyneth, knowing that she was pretty far out of _their_ reach. Of course that was an admission made in silence and would stay that way.

He noted that the procession didn't go all the way through the city, avoiding the alienage and the human slums. It was only natural, he supposed, but if he had a say in the type of rule he would hold, it would be one that included _all_ of Denerim's citizens.

The trip back to the palace seemed far shorter than the trip away from it, but Alistair knew much of that was the trepidation in his heart. He couldn't be Maric, and he feared that was what most people wanted. They'd be watching him, waiting to see some of that legendary king in his son.

Leliana had told him before that she believed one day there would be ballads and legends told about _him_, legends that lived beyond his father's name. He hadn't been all that interested in being famous or infamous for anything, but he did know that he didn't want to spend his life living in the shadow of someone many years gone.

Thinking about his first and only love sent a pang from his mind and straight into his heart. For a short while that morning she had invaded his thoughts, but there was enough else to occupy him that she was put aside. Now Leliana was there again, as strong a presence as the last time he'd touched her. She'd smelled like Andraste's Grace, the same flowered fragrance so beloved of her mother.

A nudge hit his shoulder, light enough not to jar him, but hard enough to pull him from his reverie. He turned briefly to see Gwyneth behind him, as they were both standing, and he stepped down from the carriage.

* * *

The Grand Cleric was fast for an old hag, already standing at her place at the very top of the grand stairs. Alistair wondered if it wasn't some kind of sin to think poorly of so religious and important a personage, but the sky hadn't opened to strike him down with a holy bolt just yet. Besides, he liked to think the Maker had _some_ sympathy for suffering and Alistair had been suffering two days straight under that woman's mantras.

A cross made of burnished wood had been built into an arch, hanging now above the grand doors of the palace. The sun caught on the golden paint set into the etched rays. Walking under it, Alistair felt as if the eyes of the Maker were bearing down on him, and he fought the desire to hold his breath as their party stopped before the doors.

Mind buzzing, he barely heard the drone of the Grand Cleric as she made the traditional speech of greeting. At least _he_ didn't have to say anything just yet. There were more words upon more words, and Alistair felt his mind drifting.

"We also ask you, good people of Ferelden to greet your future queen, the fair Teyrna Gwyneth!" The Grand Cleric might have been smiling, but it was hard to tell.

More words, some cheering. Alistair's brain was fading out.

"_Hold your arms out, embrace your people_." The woman hissed in Alistair's ears, nearly making him jump. Smiling nervously, he did just that. More cheering, and some of it almost sounded sincere as the royal procession went inside.

The tall windows of the Grand Hall let in a bright filter of light, hitting on the gold garland strung about the posts of the Landsmeet balconies. Alistair swallowed past a large lump in his throat. He would never forget this room, where Loghain saw his last moments. The servants had cleaned the spot of all its blood but the stain would be there, forever etched in the new king's memory.

An ungodly large instrument was set up against the far wall, huge metal cylinders at the back of it, and what looked to be ivory keys lain out before a well dressed man. As soon as fingers fell upon those keys, ominous music came from the pipes. It was an impressive, if not foreboding musical piece.

"_A pipe organ, imported from Tevinter_." Gwyneth whispered in his ear, loud enough to be heard over the ceremonial dirge being played.

She knew it'd been in the palace's possession during Cailan and Anora's reign, but they'd never used it. The obvious weight of the thing made her wonder how many men it took to haul it up here from the palace basements. She also had to wonder at the mournful selection of music, until she realized they were paying homage to the kings of years past.

The dais was exactly as the pair of them remembered, two thrones upon it, one shorter than the other. More garland strewn up over the backs of the over-ambitious 'chairs', catching the light from the windows. The Grand Cleric stood upon a wooden rostrum, a cross of the Maker burned into wood and set with gold, a Book of the Holy Tenets clasped in her gnarled hands.

Gwyneth wondered at the cost of all the little extras, and made sure to bring it up after this was all over. With Denerim in its current state, they could little afford unnecessary decorations, as much as she might have enjoyed all the finery.

"Kneel thee before mine eyes and the sight of the Maker." The Grand Cleric commanded, serious in her task.

That moment was only for Alistair, and Gwyneth took her place off to the right of the rostrum and the dais.

Alistair stood before the holy woman, going to his knees as practice bade him. The old woman placed a hand atop his head, reciting a verse from the Holy Tenets as she did so, but the words were lost to the former Templar, taken over by the sound of blood roaring in his ears. He concentrated, feeling the eyes of the watching nobles boring into his back, knees beginning to feel sore, pressed into the stone. '_Why didn't they bring me a sodding pillow?_' His inner voice reminded him strangely of Oghren and he tried not to laugh as he imagined the dwarf belching out a good one somewhere.

"Do you so recognize the righteous and blessed kings that came before thee? Do you so recognize their magnificence under the eyes of our Great Maker?"

"I do take to my heart and soul, those kings that did so come before thee. I do take to my heart and soul, their magnificence under the eyes of our Great Maker." His voice sounded strange and unfamiliar to his own ears, tone self assured in a way he wasn't aware he could manage.

"Of the laws and customs of Ferelden, do you so swear to uphold such laws and customs with the authority granted to you under the eyes of the Maker? Do you so swear to hold such laws and customs within your heart, and to place them above all others?"

"The laws and customs of Ferelden shall be upheld, by the authority granted to me under the eyes of the Maker. I so swear to hold such laws and customs above all else."

"The Three Points of Kingly Duty as set by King Calenhad are thus. Thou shall keep full peace and accord in the Maker. Thou shall hold full conference and loyalty in thy chantry, thy people and thy land. Thou shall keep in all these domains rightful and every righteousness and discretion with mercy and truth."

Her voice seemed to drone on and on, but Alistair paid attention, holding his head solemnly before the Grand Cleric, a hand pressed to his heart. "I do so swear upon the Three Points of Kingly Duty."

"Grant thou all rightful laws and customs to behold and that thou will defend and strengthen them if the Maker to His might and powers shall choose."

Alistair crossed himself as he was told to, and nodded. "I grant and behold it so."

Degare came forward with a large velvet pillow, the dark red of the fabric offset by the golden crown sat upon it. It was a simple item, for something with so much power presented when it was given, the gilded metal decorated only by carved circles, rubies crusted in the spaces between. Degare held out the pillow to the Grand Cleric, smiling patiently as she took it in her practiced hands.

"Then before thou people and thou Maker, stand and rise as King Alistair Theirin, Sovereign of Ferelden!" The Grand Cleric's voice rang out, soon drowned by the cheers as she placed the crown atop Alistair's head.

He rose grandly, still feeling as if he were outside himself, Gwyneth standing away to watch him. "Good people of Ferelden, I greet you as your king! May our days together be blessed by the Maker!"

The cheering reached a feverish pitch, some of the enthusiasm felt quite genuine. Shouts of 'Maker save King Alistair!' interspersed.

A sudden blare from the organ and Alistair almost jumped. The ominous music while he was walking up to the dais was replaced now with something more cheery, the keys played so rapidly that he had to wonder how the organist managed it.

As he looked to his friend, Gwyneth's face was lit with a beatific smile, and that time, it finally reached her eyes. All those months and Alistair had never seen such a smile, and it was a shock to realize it was for _him_.

Still dazed by it, it was a surprise when his adopted uncle, Arl Eamon came to the dais. It was his turn to speak, as he had been named Steward of the Crown.

"Peace my friends, good people of Ferelden. For today we celebrate not only our new king, but his forefathers who saw him brought to this place. Today we thank those that have fallen, and wish for them to watch our progress and bless us. Not only for our good king, but for Teyrna Gwyneth, who joins us today as Princess-in-Waiting. Who in nine days hence will become our queen."

The particulars of that had yet to be worked out. Eamon knew that there was still Anora to be dealt with, but he would see it done if it was the last great act he ever saw through. Alistair was king, and Bryce and Eleanor's daughter would be his queen. Though times had seen great heroes fall to disgrace and death, today Eamon knew joy, because there was hope. As bright as Gwyneth's smile and Alistair's crown.

A welcoming cheer resounded throughout the chamber, pierced suddenly by the shouts of guards.

"You can't go in there! I said . . ." A burly guardsman in chainmail was pushing against the doors, but he was shoved back as they came open.

From the open doorway stood a man that looked like he might have been on the verge of death, and was drug up from the swamp. How he had even managed to get past the guards was a wonder.

"_Who_ is this? Escort him out _immediately_!" Eamon ordered, face set into hard lines of disapproval. This was a time of celebration and he wouldn't have it ruined by any usurpers.

"He says he is Lord Cousland ser, he showed us his signet ring!" An exasperated guard hung his head in apology. "He demanded to see Teyrna Cousland."

There were gasps of surprise. From the corner of his hearing, Alistair picked up Gwyneth's voice, turning to see the woman herself peering out into the crowd, frame visibly rigid.

"It _can't_ be! I thought you were dead! I thought I was the last one!" A hand went to her throat, to hold back the choke of oncoming tears. "Fergus?"

Standing amongst the trussed up nobles and the well polished guards, he looked a sight indeed. Dark red hair ragged with toil and dirt, face scratched in many places. Through the grime, he smiled, silver eyes finding the woman in blue up on the dais. "Hello, little sister."


	5. Chapter 5: The Lost Ones

**Disclaimer:** _"Dragon Age: Origins" and all its expansions and additional content is the property of Bioware and EA Games. Large portions of written content within the game, as well as Dragon's Age: The Stolen Throne, and Dragon's Age: Calling, are the creation of David Gaider. Original scenarios and characters are used under the creative license of the writer, ItalianEmpress1985. No profit is being made and the following story is for entertainment purposes only_

**Words From The Author: **_There's an NPC here that I've rescued from the clutches of death! Since the game just lets you assume, that naturally, he died they never said for sure, so I think there's like .000001 percent chance that this COULD have happened in the game. :p But really that's just an excuse. In so saying this could be considered slightly AU, but not overly so._

_Thank you for stopping in. Watch out for low flying dragons!_

* * *

_**Chapter Five:**_

_**The Lost Ones**_

* * *

**April 22'nd, 9:31 Dragon Age**

**A**listair had remained in the Grand Hall and Gwyneth was well aware that she would owe him quite a lot for dealing with the shocked nobles out there. In the small room she found herself stood in, there was at least one noble that was just as stunned.

The siblings stared at one another, as if willing themselves to disappear, _because surely this must be a dream, a mirage_. The newly named princess had ushered her brother into the small antechamber before any of the others got an eyeful. If he hadn't greeted her publicly as a sister, there'd be some very _different_ rumors already circulating.

Now a long baleful silence stretched out, where they both waited. "You look awful." She offered, too overwhelmed with feeling to say much else.

"I _feel_ worse." He rubbed a hand over his face, blinked and found that his little sister was still standing there. "_You_ look _beautiful_." Her appearance was comforting in its familiarity. Gwyneth had always been beautiful, always fine, like their mother, and that she would remain so was like coming home again.

Gwyneth swallowed past heart-wrenching sorrow and unbelievable joy. Fergus. Fergus _Cousland_. Her brother, her family . . . _alive_! But his wife and child were dead, his parents were dead. She wondered if he even knew. Without a care for her vestments, she finally managed to move, embracing him tightly as she let the hot tears fall, his name a repetition of disbelief.

They had grown up as children entirely too aware of their own good looks and high standing, and they hadn't always been so docile towards one another, though they had always shared a strong connection. To the point that some created dark whispers of incest behind their backs, but their titles kept most of those rumors at bay.

Fergus stroked her hair, neither of them mindful of his filthy hands. He pressed his nose against her own, the name of his sister spoken with just as much disbelief as he embraced her.

"Howe . . . I heard he's dead." Fergus pulled away to grasp her shoulders, an emptying out of his whole being was in his eyes; burning silverite. "Did he suffer? I hope so." There was that hard Cousland anger, something that was rather famous in Ferelden.

'_Drawing the ire of a Cousland is like waking a sleeping dragon_.' They'd said and it had been such ire that made Arl Howe wait like a coward to strike, pretending to be a friend for so long, when all the while his jealousy had created a hatred in him. A sense of entitlement that stayed with him until his last moments. "_I . . . deserved . . . more!_" Blood and spittle landing on Gwyneth's cheek as she knelt beside the man her father had once called 'friend', and watched him die.

"It was a quick battle . . . there might have been a royal hearing if King Cailan was alive. Though with the threat of Teyrn Mac Tir still looming, I couldn't risk a lengthy trial, so I killed him." Even as she said it, she knew that wasn't the _real_ reason. It was vengeance that bade her to take his life, her own hatred, bore in on that evil man. Maybe that made _her_ a little evil herself, but Gwyneth couldn't say she regretted it. "He suffered enough knowing that he failed, that a Cousland yet lived." A light hand reached out to touch her brother's cheek, the skin looking pale against the backdrop of the smudges on his face. "So you know?"

He was quite surprised Gwyneth had done the deed herself. Their father had trained both children to defend themselves and their home, but Fergus had benefited the most from such lessons. Gwyneth hadn't been taught nearly as much, the impropriety of a gentle lady out in the practice yard with the men, and Gwyneth's own lack of interest in such manly crafts had seen to it that she was no talented swordswoman. Though she did at least know the basics. Fergus had heard tell of what she'd been through during their long separation, and he relented that she must have learned a thing or two.

At his sister's pitying tone and the touch of her hand, his mind was taken once again to what he'd lost, what could _never_ be regained.

'_Bring me sord, Papa?' His boy's toddler mouth unable to form all the words just yet._

'_That's _sword_, Oren, and I'll bring you the biggest one I can find.' He'd smiled and patted his head, turning to his wife._

'_I worry for you, husband.' Her eyes tried to catch and hold his, and though their's wasn't a cold marrige, neither was it very loving. But she cared._

'_I'll be fine Oriana.' He smiled, granting a small peck to her cheek as he'd swept from the room._

A sickening sorrow in his gaze said that he knew plenty, that the death of his wife and son wasn't news to him, at least not recent. "I heard _many_ things on my journey here. My only real regret is that I wasn't there when you killed that bastard. I would've liked to spit in his face before he finally expired." Anger, fierce and coiling, etched an image of the Cousland lord, sketched there with a quill of intensity.

For a moment Gwyneth entertained the idea of telling him the details of what happened, thinking he deserved to know.

She'd been broken into pieces that night, so grief stricken that she couldn't think. Her nephew dead and bloody on the floor, his mother not enough to save him. Gwyneth's own mother sobbing and screaming, all the while trying to shield her daughter from seeing any of it. Her father's guts bleeding onto the pantry tiles, reaching for his wife as he ordered his daughter to leave without him. Her mother staying behind, as Gwyneth was dragged away by that damn Grey Warden, while her childhood home filled with smoke.

So it was that now, she couldn't bring herself to tell Fergus those things. Selfish as it may have been, she couldn't say the words aloud, not again. "I always meant to go back." Gwyneth's voice sounded honest enough to her own ears, even if she knew it to be a blatant lie. "But with the darkspawn, this Blight . . . Well . . ."

Fergus rubbed her back, the sudden and almost violent rush of love he felt, ebbing back to what it had normally been and he smiled. "Busy little Gwyny-Gwyn . . . _Princess_ Gwyneth at that, and soon to be a _queen_? Mother would be overjoyed, Father too, of course, once he reigned the old gal in." The humor was forced, but Fergus had no desire to stay mired in melancholy that whole day, for there _was_ happiness. In seeing his sister again, at least.

There was disapproval in her gaze, but a smirk too. "I'll have a room for you, and a nice bath. You could use it, and I can't have either of us going to greet the nobles until we are presentable." Gwyneth clicked her tongue, entirely aware that her own attire was tainted by her brother's filth.

He didn't shake his head ruefully at her as Alistair might've done, her brother in all but blood, for Fergus _was_ her _blood _brother, and like her, he always liked to be fresh and attractive. His current appearance couldn't be easy on him.

That her brother was desperate enough to run himself ragged to reach her, warmed her heart, making her worried wonderment ever stronger. "What _happened_ to you, Fergus?"

"_That_ Gwyny-Gwyn, is a _long_ story."

"Lucky for you then, that we'll have plenty of time."

* * *

Lost in the Kocari Wilds, found after he'd almost been killed by darkspawn and brought back to life by wild Chasind folk. It sounded like something Alistair could claim as a portion of his own existence, such as it was. Except he certainly couldn't say that _he'd_ been absent and thought dead for _six months_, and his rescuers had been less Chasind and more two mad apostates.

The young Grey Warden had heard many things about the Couslands during those short days at Ostagar, some true, and some probably not so much. He 'learned' of more during Gwyneth's frequent bouts of bragging. At least the one he could personally attest to, was that they were hard to kill. He had two living examples standing in the antechamber with him right at that moment.

Now that he got a look at Fergus Cousland, all clean and shined up, it was very obvious that he was related to Gwyneth. Though she'd told him that her brother was seven years her senior, they could've almost been twins, so alike was their appearance. Hers, the feminine version and his the masculine. Same brownish red hair, same sharp silver eyes. Same easy smug look, one that all but screamed their feelings of superiority.

Alistair watched the lord's face as he offered his condolences on the other man's loss, the flicker of emotion fading quickly. Replaced with a slightly forced joviality at meeting his sister's betrothed, a well-practiced mask, no doubt.

"I thank you. Though I suspect I should be offering _my_ sympathies. I know _I_ certainly wouldn't want to be stuck with the kind of wife _Gwyn_ will make." A smirk, not so forced, lit up Lord Cousland's face.

"Oh thank you, brother mine, I shall remember your _glowing_ praise when the next Landsmeet is begun." There was a rigid threat in her tone, but a merry shine in her gaze that said otherwise.

"On that note . . . What does this mean? " Alistair leaned against an outcrop of hard stone. At least now that Arl Eamon had taken care of 'entertaining' the nobles in the Grand Hall, Alistair could relax a bit in there with the two siblings. Though he hardly knew Fergus, the man was soon to be his brother through marriage, and there was some small comfort in getting away from the suffocating crowd beyond the walls.

"In regards to who will hold the provincial lands of Highever?" Gwyneth cleared her throat. "I would have had to relinquish my title as teyrna once I become queen, at any rate. As to who would've taken that duty up . . . Well, I'd hoped to discuss that with _you_." Her hand went to Alistair's elbow, Fergus' eyes following the movement. "Now there is none better than a Cousland, and a Cousland these lands have regained." A smile turned to her brother as he raised a dark red brow, then back to the king "Seems the perfect opportunity, does it not, darling?"

Alistair was momentarily struck mute by the unexpected endearment, and he noticed with a strangled panic that she was sidling up to him like she was enamored of him. '_A ruse!'_ Alistair realized it and barely stifled a sigh of relief. There was some surprise that she'd put forth that façade before her _brother_, but the new king reminded himself that Fergus Cousland knew nothing of their arrangement yet.

Maybe Gwyneth wanted to avoid any worry that it was a _bad_ union. Even after half a year of the woman's acquaintance, there were things about the noblewoman that Alistair didn't know. Her reasoning, frequently one of them.

"Ahh, yes, certainly . . . darling." He tried it out on his own tongue, and though he felt a quavering in his gut at the falsity of it, Lord Cousland didn't appear to notice.

"I would agree of course. To see Highever under the reign of any other family would rankle me a great deal . . . but I do worry, dear sister, about how . . ." Fergus searched for a word and it came easily. "_Convenient_ this might all seem to our fellows."

"Convenient?" Gwyneth's voice threatened to go shrill, but she shook her head, a loose tendril of dark red escaping to caress her face. "Hardly. If they say anything as such, I'll have no less than their heads."

Alistair imagined she might be joking, but one look at her face and it was obvious she wasn't. He didn't gulp, but he _did_ feel squeamish. She was not a forgiving sort, Gwyneth. A nervous laugh escaped and the weight of the new crown made his head seem heavy. "Ah, well, considering how much both of you have lost, and the fact that you, Lord Cousland were nearly killed yourself, 'convenient' seems like a very inappropriate word."

"Pity that there are so many that have a deficiency of common decency, or common _sense_ for that matter." Gwyneth sneered, an expression her brother was more than familiar with, and he laughed, earning a brief glare.

"Never change, Gwyny-Gwyn. What would the tales of Ferelden be without the acerbic contemplations of a celebrated, conceited and over inflated beauty?"

Alistair was shocked, first by the whimsical nickname and then the way they'd speak to each other like that in front of him. He suspected that his own sister's acidic reception was the exception to sibling behavior not the norm, but there was affection in Fergus' rough but spot on description of Gwyneth. An affection that was obvious to anyone that was listening.

"Go soak your head, you pompous ass." Also with affection, if a bit sour.

Chuckling, Fergus ran a light hand across one temple. He looked a bit nervous glancing at Alistair, then towards his sister. "I have a member of our household with me, couldn't bring him in _here_ of course . . . but I have a wonder if he might be knighted by your hand, Majesty."

"A member of our house? Everyone _die_d, Fergus. Who on Thedas could it be?" Gwyneth raised a brow, fingers still curled about the elbow of her betrothed.

"It's Ser Gilmore, and I should let him speak of the escape himself."

Gwyneth barely restrained the strangled sound of her surprise and her hand tightened where it lay, Alistair wincing. He glanced down at the lady, nudging her, and the grip finally loosened.

"Well, what say you, Sire?" Fergus prompted again.

"He's already knighted under the Cousland banner, I do not see the need." Gwyneth sniffed, holding her head high.

She had kissed Ser Gilmore during what she'd imagined to be his last heroic moments, not thinking anything of it if the man was to die. While there was some gladness in her heart that someone else had survived, she couldn't keep the worry that he'd make something out of that kiss, from seeping into her. As always, disregard made a good cover for anxiety.

"Let the _king_ speak." Fergus wasn't worried about commanding his sister in that, and he couldn't imagine why she'd even protest to begin with, but before she could screech at him, the king interceded.

"I don't see why not, but I do have to ask why."

"Yes, _why_ Fergus?" An unfriendly smile tugged at Gwyneth's mouth.

"To have one of the Knights of Denerim as my commander will set the kind of impression I need to rally more troops. I intend to reclaim Castle Cousland and Highever no later than two weeks hence." Silver eyes bore into silver eyes, a test of wills against the siblings, and surprisingly it was Gwyneth that relented.

"I imagine many of Howe's men will have scattered." She added.

"Perhaps, sister, but I know how these things develop. One solider will have announced himself as Lord of Highever, with ideas above his station. In the chaos the darkspawn caused, 'tis likely our people would buckle under. I fought my way back from death itself, I've spent endless months finding my way back to where I belong, only to find that all but one of my family has perished and I will _not_ forego our lands _now_."

"Of course not." Gwyneth smiled in sympathy and a bit of guilt. She was loyal to her family and her country, there was never any question of that, but still she couldn't bring herself to go back. In that, Fergus was the better noble.

Alistair watched the exchange, a third wheel on a cart with only two. There were many times that he would've considered Gwyneth more his sister than Goldanna could ever have been, but there in a quiet antechamber, the murmur of the nobility coming through the walls, it was hard to hold on to that feeling. Especially when he was presented with the man that really _was_ her brother. Alistair felt like a place holder for the real thing, and a poor imitation he had made.

"It must wait, however. _This_ day is in celebration of our new king, and that is what we shall do when we return to the hall." Gwyneth's words were final and to the point.

If Fergus had traveled with her from Hell and beyond, as Alistair had, he might've known what led to such a commanding presence. Though she'd always been a bossy little shit, and had never been shy to tell _him_ to go stuff off, but he didn't and instead could only wonder at that new set piece to his prim sister.

She turned adoring eyes up to the man in question, and Fergus tried to decipher their relationship. If Gwyneth meant to prove that it was a suitable match, she needn't try and make him believe that any _romance_ was involved. Lord Cousland could see, clear as day, that there wasn't. Gwyneth's adoration was false in a way that only her own blood might be able to discern, but false it was, and the king's discomfited look would be obvious to a blind man.

He found himself unsure of what his sister was about. Noble marriages didn't require romance, and were often better off without them. It allowed the focus to remain on the marriage itself, but then, perhaps Gwyneth was merely perfecting her facade. Fergus knew his sister to be a consummate actress when it came to that.

As the three of them returned to the gossiping nobility of Ferelden, a clear thought entered Fergus' head, like a flash of lightning making the plains of night visible. They physically looked good together, but there was something not quite right with the new royal couple. He just couldn't put his finger on what it might be.

Still, if Gwyneth had agreed then perhaps his worry was merely some paranoia.

* * *

"_Maker save the king! Long live King Alistair_!"

There were shouts from the street and Anora scuffled across the dirty floor of the palace dungeon. After Fort Drakon was all but destroyed, she had been moved there, stuffed away in some remote corner like forgotten baggage. She didn't need to strain her ears to hear the revelry, and her mouth curled in disgust in time with her gut.

_She_ deserved to be there, hailed as queen. How quickly they'd forgotten her, moving to worship a false idol and the bitch of a Cousland beside him.

That woman's smug face would be damned in Anora's mind forever. _She'd_ done this. _She_ had done it _all_.

Anora could recall the way the fell temptress had ensorcelled her own husband, the way Cailan's eyes trailed after that red headed tramp like a love sick puppy. Oh she might not have been a mage, but the effect was the same. Then to claim there was no seduction there. '_We were just friends_.' A scoffing laugh traveled up Anora's throat, even then.

That spoiled brat had stolen everything from her. Her husband, her father, her favor from the people, and now she sought to steal Anora's crown. She was preening up there with her betrothed, raking in her idolization with greedy bejeweled fingers.

"I curse you, Gwyneth Cousland! I curse your _name_!"

"Tis is a day for revelry, Anora Mac Tir, can you not forget your bile for one solitary moment?" A voice from the darkness, but there was no one.

"Who's there?"

Nothing but silence, and then that disembodied voice again, closer this time. One, two, three beats of Anora's heart.

"Tis always the same question. Maybe I am no one, maybe I am everyone." The speaker was snide, superiority evident in every word. A voice that was neither entirely male or entirely female, existing somewhere on a plane in between, eerie for its duality.

Anora peered into the dim corners of the dungeon, the shadows seeming to undulate where they sought refuge from the wan torchlight. She would've cried out, but the guards left her to sneak upstairs and get some spirits from the coronation ball. "If you are a mage, the king will have you executed!" It was a threat with little weight, she knew, but there was nothing else she had.

"Of course I am a mage, what else could I be? No one can see me, no one can ever hear me, except for you, so your threats of calling out mean nothing." The voice was snide and certain.

The door to Anora's cell unlatched and the blonde woman made a mad dash for it, mouth falling open in a scream when she was shoved back by an invisible force.

"_She_ sent you didn't she?" The queen snarled, rage stealing away any lingering nobility she clung to.

"You are referring to your replacement? No 'she' did not send me, but it is for her that I have come. Not that she knows, and not that I care much regardless. This will serve _me_ in the end."

"Then why are you here? How is it attacking me serves a mage too cowardly to stand out of the shadows?" Anora ventured into the quiet of her cell, standing from the floor with the closed door now across from her. Her voice was stinging in its accusation, but she wasn't sure that would even effect her 'visitor'

"It would seem a pity to have the crown denied to her because of _you_. No, no that will simply not work. I owe her a rather large favor, and I think _this_ shall do nicely."

"I take it you are not here to negotiate?" There was pride in Anora's voice. If she was to be killed, she would face it with all the dignity her father had.

"No, I am not."

Anora expected the attack when it came, and she fought against it, she was a Mac Tir, and they never gave up so easily. When she couldn't see her attacker, however, she could not fight them nearly so well. As her strength left her, Anora could hear the revelry call yet again, the shout following her down a black hole.

"_Long live King Alistair_!"


	6. Chapter 6: For The Crown

**Disclaimer:** _"Dragon Age: Origins" and all its expansions and additional content is the property of Bioware and EA Games. Large portions of written content within the game, as well as Dragon's Age: The Stolen Throne, and Dragon's Age: Calling, are the creation of David Gaider. Original scenarios and characters are used under the creative license of the writer, ItalianEmpress1985. No profit is being made and the following story is for entertainment purposes only_

**Words From The Author: **_Thank you to my reviewers, I'm steadfast on this story even without them, but it is always very lovely to know what others think of my work. I see a lot of you have put me on Story Alert, which is also lovely, but don't be afraid to leave reviews, even if it's just a few words._

_Thank you for stopping in. Watch out for low flying dragons!_

* * *

_**Chapter Six:**_

_**For The Crown**_

* * *

**April 23'rd, 9:31 Dragon Age**

"**S**uicide?" Princess Gwyneth's voice rang out in the dungeon, full of disbelief, the look on her betrothed's face a mirror to her own.

The two of them had stood by while they had removed Anora's body, hidden under a burlap sack cloth.

"Yes, Highness. We found her this morning, hanging from a rope. She'd been dead since last night, the cleric thinks."

"A _rope_? How did she even get it?" Alistair's dark blonde brows raised up, the eyes beneath them dark.

Gwyneth hissed and rounded on the guardsman, leaving Alistair's question behind. She knew, just as much as he did, that Anora wasn't the kind of woman to kill herself, but in front of potential gossips it wasn't wise to speak aloud such thoughts. "Where were the _two of you_ when this happened? You were suppose to be _watching_ her!"

"We needed a break is all, she was barkin' at us when we left, how were we suppose to know she'd go and do _this_?" The guard whined, not knowing what else to say.

"Churls, idiots!" Gwyneth nearly slapped both of them in the face, her own red with fury. "Get out of my sight!"

Pale sunlight filtered in through slits that could never be called windows, the dust motes in it blurring the expressions of the two guards. They looked at the king, but even _he_ seemed cowed under by the furious harpy standing before them and they were only too glad to make a bow and leave.

For what seemed like long moments, there was nothing but the murmur of distant voices, and the drip of the mildewed walls of the dungeon. Alistair watched Gwyneth fume, knowing enough about her temper that he realized it was best to wait. While often having immense poise, there was always something coiling, acidic and violent under the calm surface. The same deadly rage that saw an end to Arl Howe and the great beast atop Fort Drakon. The same rage that was flowing through _his_ veins when he executed Teyrn Mac Tir.

"Damn it all to the Black City!" She screeched, banging against the bars of the unoccupied cell. With a deep breath, Gwyneth straightened her back, shaking the stray wisps of hair from her face, wiping them away as she wiped away her boiling anger. Dismay took its place. "This is a terrible thing, Alistair, a _terrible_ thing." Tone lowand melancholic.

He shuffled his booted feet, distracted by how shiny they were. _Never would he get used to that_, he didn't think. The 'sire' 'highness' 'majesty', those he won't get used to either, not even after last night.

Even though Gwyneth's words were unhappy, that she said his name was a refreshing thing, even amongst all that mildew. "Well, at least now you don't have to worry about how to wrestle the crown away from her."

The actual crown was in the royal vault, he knew that, but he also knew that the title would always be connected to the object.

"You think I am _glad_ for this? Exactly what kind of person do you take me for?" Her temper rose again.

"I think you are a person far too prone to ranting and raving! I'm just trying to lighten the mood, you don't have to take my head off!" Suddenly he was yelling too, defensive.

"Lighten the mood?" Quiet and dangerous, and then her pitch went up. It sounded like someone scraping nails against shale rock. "_Lighten the mood_? A woman is _dead_, a woman that could've still been of great use to us _and_ Ferelden!"

"You didn't even _like_ her!" He rounded back.

"So what if I _didn't_? It didn't mean her life was _worthless_! Aren't you bothered in the slightest?"

"Of _course_ I am, and I've been bothered over the _countless_ times we've stepped over corpses. Both those of people we killed and the ones killed by others. Men, women, humans, elves, dwarves . . . All of them might have ' been of great use to Ferelden' but what they _could_ have done, doesn't matter. Because all of them are _dead_, _they're_ dead and _we_ aren't and all I can do is walk over their bodies and move on!" Alistair's face darkened, his feelings pouring out of him in his defensive anger. His nostrils flared as he watched Gwyneth.

Something in her eyes softened, her voice lowered and full of sympathy. "Alistair . . ." She meant to say more, but nothing was forthcoming and she stepped towards the tall man she was set to wed. The hurt and anger in his gaze was apparent as she got closer.

"Your Highness . . . Your Majesty." A guard cleared his throat as he stepped down into the dungeon, nodding at his king and the future queen. They looked at him sharply for a moment as if caught unawares and he dipped his head respectfully. "I do beg your pardon for the interruption. Arl Eamon has heard of the . . . unfortunate incident and is awaiting your presence in the council chamber, along with Mistress Wynne."

Alistair recovered first, looking more like the king he should, as he nodded back at the guard. "Tell him we'll be there in a moment."

* * *

Wynne watched the aging arl sat across from her at the overly large table. He was agitated, but holding himself together. Though the mage didn't know him well, she could admire the man for his remarkable forbearance.

"My sister died of illness. Such a strong queen, Rowan was. I was young at the time, but I remember the image my sister made. She had a presence that you could almost _feel_. In the end I think Maric realized it." Eamon sounded both reminiscent and sad, recalling the days when he had not thought his sister would be so successful.

"It was not a love match?" Wynne was certain she knew the answer, but she was surprised that he was talking to _her_ and didn't want to spoil it.

"No, not as such, but there was affection there and love, at the end of it."

"You are hoping the same for Alistair and Gwyneth?"

Eamon said nothing, only looking at the white haired mage. Then he spoke, and it was clear he thought about his words overly so before he said them. "They are so well suited and yet not, but this . . . _this_ isn't good. Rowan lost to illness, Anora lost to suicide, what will we lose Gwyneth to, I wonder?"

"That's surely a _macabre_ thought." Wynne lowered her voice in disapproval and the arl looked guilty as he glanced at her.

"Yes, of course, you're right." Eamon changed the subject, _somewhat_. "You know them well, would you say my nephew and our princess are more akin to siblings than affectionate friends?"

Now Wynne saw what was going on; he was trading her his trust for some of her own. The mage opened her mouth, closed it, thought about her words, and then opened it again. "I would say that it certainly could be seen that way."

"But how do _you_ see it?"

"They bicker and banter like a brother and sister might, though I don't know that many. You know of your nephew's affections for another woman?"

Eamon nodded.

"Well, then you must take _that_ into consideration as well. There's a bond there, in that they are both Grey Wardens, and if I had to guess, I'd say Gwyneth does indeed see Alistair as a brother . . . but . . ."

The arl leaned forward, against the table, eyes anxious. "But?"

"Never say never." A wry grin lit up Wynne's face.

It drew an unexpected chuckle from Eamon. "So you're saying _you_ don't have any better insight into the matter than _I_ might?"

"I'm floating blissfully in ignorance." She smirked and he did the same. Sobering, her gaze locked onto his. "You are worried about heirs to the throne, aren't you?"

Wynne wondered how she got into that conversation in the first place. She had gone into the Fade to save the arl's son, and she guessed maybe he had _some_ confidence in her for all that. He might even have considered her the closest thing to his equal, when taking into account her relationship with the king and soon-to-be-queen.

The mage was allowed a great deal of freedom in the castle since Alistair had her named Court Mage. It was an old title, not offered in Ferelden for a very long time, back during days when a 'court' was little more than a large home in a village of mud huts and thatched roofs.

"I have heard that conception for a Grey Warden is difficult and between _two_ of them, impossible, but I think there are ways around that. Old and powerful are the remedies for infertility." The arl knew that well, having dealt with the matter with his wife, Isolde.

There was an unspoken statement somewhere in there, and from Wynne's face, she caught on to it. Both of them were too old to bandy words. She didn't ask how he might know such a thing about Grey Wardens and he didn't tell her. "But what there is no remedy for is revulsion of consummation between husband and wife."

"Those are fancy words for saying you can lead horses to water, but you cannot make them drink." Wynne smiled to herself at the old adage, but the arl didn't appear amused. She straightened her face. "My lord, I think it's too early to worry about that, you must give them time."

With a nod of his graying head, Eamon settled into his seat, hands clasped together and lain at the edge of the wood. The bluish-gray of his gaze was like the sea, and his intent just as hard to see under the surface. There was a world of thought behind his eyes, but he had spoken all he wished to, and those thoughts remained silent and roiling, known only to their owner.

Wynne pressed her aching back into the wide armed chair, and took in her surroundings, using the time of silence she had been offered.

The darkness of the wood in the room made it feel warm and slightly oppressive. It was a place of thinking, rallying and plan making but it was also the heart of a Ferelden government that was on the verge of great changes. Surely even the simplest person could've felt the hum of a new age. Tall stone pillars held up the carved roof, and there was strength in appearance if little decoration. Denerim's palace was never overly fancy, not when it was compared to the descriptions of Orlesian castles and manors, but it was functional and grand in its own way. A long table, the very one Wynne was seated at, dominated the room, and it was as unassuming as the rest of the council chamber. If there was a word that the mage might prescribe, it would've been 'somber', though in the days to come, it'd hardly be calm in there very often.

* * *

The silence was broken as the heavy double doors of the large room came open, admitting the sovereign of Ferelden and his betrothed.

Alistair and Gwyneth were entirely too polished for such an early hour. Arl Guerrein reminded himself that they were Grey Wardens and probably not prone to sleeping in unless they were ill.

The crown on Alistair's head looked as if it really belonged there and Eamon smiled. He'd be wearing that more frequently in those early days of his rule, when precedent must be set. His first day as king, the previous mostly pomp and frippery, and already he appeared ready to take on the world.

"Leave us." Gwyneth turned a light hand to the guardsmen as they shut the doors behind the pair, and the two of them came forward to sit at the table. Once she was assured they were alone, she started in, implicitly comfortable with Wynne's presence, as was Alistair.

Eamon took note of that.

"It wasn't suicide." The words from the princess' mouth would brook no argument and as Eamon raised a questioning brow at his nephew, Alistair nodded.

"The cleric says it is and the guards think so, but I agree with Gwyneth. I can hardly claim to know Anora, but what I know about her wouldn't suggest _this_. She was holding on to her title, kicking and screaming, and I can't see her just letting all of that go."

Many were those that may have thought ill of the late queen, but so too did she have many that held her in high esteem. It was like picking a needle from a haystack, to choose one solitary person that would wish Anora harm, though perhaps the search was narrowed when taking into consideration who could actually _achieve_ that goal. Though the fight against the archdemon had taken a large toll on the city, it still could pride itself on the defenses of the palace. For someone to get into the building, and then furthermore to get through the guards of the first floor and down into the dungeon, was no small task.

"The guardsmen that were suppose to be watching her took off to partake in last night's revelry, they nearly said as much, and I'm sure that's where the slouches went besides." Dry rage hovered somewhere just out of reach, but the feeling of it was painted clearly on Princess Cousland's face.

_Well, there was that then._

"This bodes ill, to set such a shadow on the brightness of our new king." Eamon looked downtrodden, his thick beard doing little to conceal the sour turn of his mouth.

"No? _Really_?" Snide and with an unpolished snort, Gwyneth drummed her thin fingers against the table, leaning forward to capture the arl's eye. "There is more to worry about than just that. Rumors will stem from this, damaging ones, if we don't proceed with caution. It's clear that we'll have to tell the people it was suicide, to state that we believe it to be murder will incite fear amongst the nobility and their servants. I think there's been enough of that already."

"Just _lie_ to them?" Alistair's mouth fell open as he looked at the fierce eyed Warden seated beside him.

"Yes, Your Highness. _Lie_ to them, because if we don't it will cause more problems then we can deal with right now." Gwyneth returned succinctly,

She somehow made 'Your Highness' sound a lot more like 'go screw yourself' It must have been some strange kind of talent. Alistair didn't find much to laugh at, but at the image of proud Gwyneth standing in front of a group of young ladies, teaching them how to stealthily insult someone, he had to swallow back on a chuckle.

"Will the public not suspect it was murder, even if you tell them otherwise?" Wynne's brows went up in thought.

"That is likely, and there isn't much we can do about that. We will have to delay the wedding for a while. I think it best that we say it is to grieve for the loss of Queen Anora, and that our future queen cannot bring herself to accept the crown until her predecessor has been honored." Eamon let his hands drum against the table just as Gwyneth's were doing; a nervous habit of many nobles.

The young woman in question pinched her eyes closed, letting the ebb of her confused emotions settle into something she could give voice to.

It was true that she'd never liked Anora much, and the feeling was mutual. Though Gwyneth could admit her own guilt in trying to steal the woman's husband. She remembered those months spent seducing an unhappy King Cailan, and the surprise when that man became her friend, and somehow the game of catching him wasn't nearly as appealing, but it was too late by then. Cailan loved her, Gwyneth suspected that much. That day before the battle at Ostagar, how he'd come alone to the edge of the battlements.

"_I'm sorry I could not greet you with more enthusiasm." A strong figure, they said he was as handsome as his father. Blonde hair, shockingly blue eyes. There, stood beside Gwyneth, he was ever so much the boy then. "We've both had to fight rumors before and I thought it best to be cautious."_

_There, with the Kocari Wilds spread out before them, and a crumbling overgrown wall at their backs, they were alone._

"_I understand, My King." She sniffed, wrapping her arms around the light leather armor she had been wearing since her escape from her home, likely now burned down to its bones. There was little emotion in her, she'd shut it all off for fear of going mad. They called her selfish, those that knew her, and they were right, but how could she maintain that when her entire family was gone? She needed Fergus, she needed him more than air. "You will send someone out to look for my brother?"_

_He had said in front of Duncan that he couldn't spare anyone until after the battle, so sure was he that they would succeed. Had Gwyneth not been so ruined, she might have caught his easy enthusiasm. A enthusiasm that was drawn out of him like blood seeping from a wound, with one look at Lady Cousland's face._

"_I've sent some of my personal guards out. I told Loghain it was to look for some ridiculous wildflower remedy for the sick mabari here in camp. He ranted at me of course, but I'm getting used to that. I don't know how my father could _stand_ him if he was like this when he was younger." A smirk, Cailan's easy charm pulling the slightest of smiles from Gwyneth's face._

"_Thank you." Quiet and somber, she turned away from him to look out at the expanse of swamplands, marsh and wilds. That would be their battleground, and a lump of fear was building in her gut. A few practice sessions with her father had seen her get out of Castle Cousland, but it was hardly something of worth when faced against _darkspawn_. The last of her line . . . Perhaps it would be so after all._

"_I don't want you to fight tomorrow." It was less a request and more a command and he was getting closer until his presence was nearly humming against her armor, his much heavier and as golden as his hair. "You're too beautiful to be tainted by all this darkness."_

_Gwyn laughed then, a brittle noise. "Do you think any of that matters? Do you think I am safe from all the bad things of Thedas because I'm 'beautiful'?"_

_Cailan's shoulders sagged, the great gilded king looking defeated. "You are to become a Grey Warden." He had much respect for the Wardens, something he thought he must have inherited from his father. When thinking about it, and about Gwyneth, the respect turned bitter on his tongue and in his heart. "I've heard that sometimes their members don't make it through the first initiation." Normally, he was not one for gossip and ghost stories, but in that he was worried, he was worried because it was _her_._

"_I have no choice, I have been _conscripted_." The words were full of venom, but she scoffed at the man beside her. "Why are you so worried about _me_ anyway? Worry for _yourself_ and the battle on the morrow. I know that you have this image of glory and victory, of making yourself a legend, but most legends became so after they were dead." Silver eyes filled with worry for him and Gwyneth realized that apart from her mabari, that king of men might be her only _true_ friend in Thedas._

"_I'll be fine, and when I come back . . . I . . . there is something I must ask you."_

"_Why not ask me now?"_

"_I want the timing to be right, I want it to be a happy moment."_

_Suddenly she thought she knew what the question would be, one made on bended knee and her gaze widened. "Cailan . . ."_

"_My uncle, Eamon, has been after me for months about finding a new queen, and I'm certain he has one in mind. A beautiful red-head that would drive any man to distraction." That damn smirk again, then his face fell. "Anora, she's a good woman, and Maker knows she has picked up my slack on more occasions than I can count, but she's cold, so very cold. I crave warmth, Gwyneth."_

_She wanted to tell him that she _too_ is cold, that he shouldn't look to _her_ for a new bride, but she was warmed then, with heated anger. _They were friends, and how dare Arl Guerrein plan and connive behind their backs? _That anger lessened when she realized that as little as a few months ago she would've gladly accepted that position, she would've _yearned_ for it. Looking at Cailan's face she thought of what she could do with that title. What she could do to Arl Rendon Howe._

"_But this isn't the time." He backed away, the wind tearing up the high towers of Ostagar to grab at the unbraided strands of his hair._

_She had enough decency to send him a smile, and through the breeze she could hear someone calling her name with irritation. Gwyneth rolled her eyes as the pair of them looked in the voice's direction. "It's that idiot Grey Warden, Alistair or whatever his name is."_

"_He seems a decent enough sort." Far and away for a moment, Cailan dragged himself back to what lay before him, _and_ who. "Gwyneth?"_

"_Yes?"_

_There on the lonely parapet, he kissed her, and it was both everything and nothing like romance novels. The backdrop would suit, but the feeling was alien and Gwyneth could feel herself start to melt against his armor, his hands finding purchase in the cinnamon wealth of her hair. Shocked, she pulled away, his eyes dark on her own._

_Alistair was drawing nearer and Cailan had to go. The urgency in his gaze was entirely too tempting. "Just . . . Just promise me that you will be careful, and when I return we'll talk more."_

_Gwyneth nodded at him watching him leave, as she stood there with Kocari wind swirling around her back. _

_Alistair finally found her, looking irritated._

"_Why did you take off? Duncan told you . . ."_

"_Mind your own business!" She snapped, interrupting him and stalking off, forcing the taller man to follow behind her. The salty taste of Cailan's lips remained on hers and she placed light fingertips there in wonderment. She had many kisses before, but none quite like that._

With a start Gwyneth realized, horrified, that she was crying as Arl Eamon, Wynne and Alistair stared at her, shocked. She sniffed and composed herself, a false laugh of embarrassment coming easily enough. "I'm sorry, this is just all so . . . so frustrating. Us women and our tears of tension."

Eamon reached across the table to offer her a handkerchief, ever the gentlemen and she took it, making ladylike dabs at her leaking eyes. It was a great performance, even if no one in that room really thought it genuine.

Dark blonde brows raised up over Alistair's brown eyes, but he couldn't fathom what brought on that bought of emotion and so he shrugged it off, because there was little else he _could_ do. "Will the people accept that? Gwyneth mourning Anora? I think even the commoners here in Denerim could see that there was rivalry there."

"_Anora, she's a good woman, and Maker knows she has picked up my slack on more occasions than I can count . . ._"

She didn't like Anora, Anora didn't like her, but there was grieving, sorrow for the waste of potential. "I can convince them." Gwyneth's straightened in the chair. "I rallied mages, elves and dwarves to our cause, my name brought forth enough acceptance at the Landsmeet that we bested those in favor of the Mac Tirs." She nodded, more to herself than anyone. "For the crown, I can do _anything_."


	7. Chapter 7: Orlesian Intervention

**Disclaimer:** _"Dragon Age: Origins" and all its expansions and additional content is the property of Bioware and EA Games. Large portions of written content within the game, as well as Dragon's Age: The Stolen Throne, and Dragon's Age: Calling, are the creation of David Gaider. Original scenarios and characters are used under the creative license of the writer, ItalianEmpress1985. No profit is being made and the following story is for entertainment purposes only_

**Words From The Author: **_Though it's probably obvious by now, Arl Eamon and Bann Teagan are considered uncles to Alistair and he their nephew in this. This is a relation ONLY by marriage. As they are the blood brothers of the late Queen Rowan. Everyone knows that, but I wanted to make it clear in the notation that I haven't mucked about with the history or anything in this story, it's just the way the nobles go about things. Though I think that Eamon and Alistair are uncle and nephew in spirit as much as anything. Probably this belonged in the first foreword but I didn't think to give a notation until now. :p_

_French - English translations courtesy of Bing Translator._

_*Mon amour = My love_

_*Vous êtes incroyable = You're amazing_

_There's a mention somewhere of when one becomes a Grey Warden they lose both title and surname, but having played the game several times, that doesn't appear to be the case. The PC certainly gets the keep the title of Lord/Lady Cousland if they are the human noble origin and Alistair would very likely still be recognized as King Alistair Theirin now. So I think, for Duncan, that may have been more of a personal choice, or something that the Wardens no longer enforce, so I've written it that way._

_Gerod Caron is the human PC (if you use the default name) Orlesian Warden you can play in Dragon Age:Awakenings. Though, as with most things, I've made him my own._

_Thank you for stopping in. Watch out for low flying dragons!_

* * *

_**Chapter Seven:**_

_**Orlesian Intervention**_

* * *

April 25'th, 9:31 Dragon Age

**"**_**I** never thought I would come to love an Orlesian accent so much." He laid back in her bedroll, the roof of the tent hovering over him like an amber cloud, lit by the campfire outside. Gwyneth, their snotty 'leader' left with her hyper mabari, that bitch Morrigan and the spooky giant they picked up in Lothering some time ago. Wynne, Oghren, and Zevran sent on another task, much to Wynne's dismay. Alistair was alone with his lover, an opportunity they both made use of._

"_Oh you! You just like the noises I make during our love making." Short ginger hair was swept back from Leliana's brow, her naked form lain in plain sight beside the former templar. Temptation at its curviest. Leliana was stunning in a way that most artists would covet, desirous to paint her beauty onto canvas. The full pouting mouth set it all off, curled in the corner with a giddy smile._

_Alistair blushed, not nearly as much as the _first_ time, but he was getting used to being someone's lover, especially that of a deliciously experienced bard._

"_Don't give me that face, you know it's true, yes?" She giggled, one hand reaching across his shoulder to curl around his neck, fingers playing at the fine hair there and he groaned. Her head came closer as her teeth found an earlobe and attacked it with arousing little nibbles._

"_Leliana . . ."_

"_Alistair?"_

"_What if they come back soon?"_

"_You worry too much. We have more than enough time to ourselves." One leg hooked over his hip and then she was straddling him, creamy breasts teasing him as they bounced with the movement. She encouraged him to take them in his hands, and he did as she arched into his touch, nipples swelling in arousal._

_Alistair found the rhythm on his own, sheathing himself in her buttery heat, knowing he'd moved the right way when Leliana began to speak in Orlesian, rocking against him. Though she was usually more vocal than him, he found himself moaning, grabbing her hips to drive her down._

_Sweat beaded out on his forehead, heart beating erratically and then Leliana stiffened above him, back rigid as she let out a howl of pleasure. Her muscle contractions brought him to his own climax and he yelled her name aloud as he spilled inside her._

_Leliana collapsed atop him, both of them sweaty from the exertion, despite the chill in the air beyond the tent's safety. Her hair tickled his chin as he bent his head to kiss her. _

"_I love you." His voice was breathless but heartfelt._

"_And I you, even if you _are_ awkward." She laughed, pleasantly girlish and one might say coquettish. The light rumble in her chest beat through into Alistair's, where their skin touched._

"_It wasn't that bad was it?" The blonde whined a bit as he reached for the rumpled blanket, drawing it over their entwined bodies._

"_Oh no. I liked it very much, could you not tell?" Crystalline blue eyes twinkled with mirth, lit up even in the dimness of their current confines._

"_Well, you did seem to be enjoying yourself." He smirked and earned a half-hearted slap to his shoulder._

"_Indeed." Leliana relented, sighing against him. "I told you before, your awkwardness is endearing."_

"_Well, I better hope so. It's about all I have going for me."_

_Another slap to the shoulder._

"_I don't like it when you do that."_

"_Do what?"_

"_You know exactly what I am talking about, you are mon amour, and I hate to hear you talk ill of yourself. You are a better man than you think."_

"_Really?" Alistair sounded slightly incredulous, as if he couldn't believe that amazing woman actually loved him._

"_Of course. Why else would I be here, in this tent, hmm?" She smiled, full lips curling up as her tongue snuck out to playfully lick Alistair's lips._

"_It's not my amazing prowess?" He whimpered._

"_Vous êtes incroyable! After I taught you a thing or two, no?" She grinned._

"_And what does that mean? You know I don't speak Orlesian."_

"_I will _never_ tell!" She squealed in delight as he tried to tease it out of her, his hand sliding up her thigh. "Again? Already?"_

_Brown eyes darkened with desire, and though he knew it'd be a little while before he could reach his own release again, he was suddenly feverish to bring _her_ to climax. "Again." He growled, flipping her over onto her back._

"_Tell me something, mon amour."_

"_Anything!" His mouth worked a trail down her taut belly, taking nips at it, and she squirmed as he got nearer and nearer to her favorite spot._

"_Why are you marrying Gwyn?"_

"_What?!"_

Alistair shouted, sitting upright in a wide and fine bed. He panicked, not knowing where he was, only that Leliana wasn't with him, and then he remembered. A terrible pain dug into him at the thought and it was only made worse when he noticed his uncomfortable erection.

The new king threw the brocaded covers off and went to the chamber pot, hidden behind a screen in the corner of the room. As he relieved himself, the erection lessened but was still there. He could either wait until it went away or do something about it. With his heart aching, he didn't feel like the latter. Alistair gritted his teeth against the feeling, as he tied the strings at the front of his sleeping trousers.

That day, he had a knighting ceremony to lord over and didn't want to be standing there trying to hide a hint of arousal. There'd be rumors everywhere about how he fancied his knights, and he didn't care much to have _that_ happen.

Thank the Maker that Gwyneth still had her own chambers. They wouldn't have to share one until after they were wed, and it was a small enough blessing. The last thing Alistair needed was for her to be aware of his erotic dreams. He could only hope they didn't continue after the wedding. _What if he accidentally reached over in the middle of night and started acting them out with his very _platonic_ wife? _The shortest reign in history would be ended when she woke up and brained him to death.

With a groan, Alistair got dressed. He'd dismissed Degare's services for the most part. The man was too terse for his liking and he had enough to deal with already.

At least Anora's death wasn't giving the court _too_ much trouble, but Alistair figured he owed a great deal of that to Arl Eamon. The man was a master politician, _but of course what political performance could be complete without its leading lady? _Oh, Gwyn was quite the image, dabbing at her eyes on the stairs as the speech was made. Leliana had been able to recite poetry, spin countless tales from memory, sing with the voice of an angel, but it was Gwyneth that was the actress. Alistair almost believed her, though he suspected that was helped along by the fact that she was indeed worried, and he was too.

Neither of them had killed the former queen, nor had they hired anyone to do so, and Alistair didn't think his adoptive uncles had any part in it either. That meant it was someone acting as a rogue killer or an unknown person had commissioned the murder. They couldn't thoroughly investigate what had happened without inviting damaging gossip.

All those months as a very active Grey Warden and Alistair learned there was much to be feared in a well handled blade, but in less than a week of being king he'd learned that wagging tongues could be just as dangerous. Hence the reason that Gwyn had her own bedchamber, but that suited Alistair just fine.

With a groan he braced himself for the day.

* * *

A hard cheekbone met the tapping of the newly titled Princess Gwyneth as she cupped her face in her palm, fingers dancing against the skin as the other hand held an unfurled sheet of parchment. Seated at the long dining table, the remnants of a simple but filling breakfast lain out before her, she hardly looked relaxed.

"Your Grace?" A scullery maid shyly reached for the crumb-coated plates, eyes darting to the noblewoman's scrutinizing face.

"Hmm? What? Oh, yes yes, Margaret, go ahead." Gwyneth drew back enough to let the maid collect the porcelain dishware before she was leaning against the table edge again, silver irises flaring on the scrawled ink.

_Grand Prince Alistair,_

_Félicitations. By the time you receive this correspondence you are likely to have the title of King of Ferelden, but one must remain appropriate in official letters._

_We have been receiving mixed news from Ferelden, so I have held back my chevaliers, but now that it seems this Blight is over, I am curious as to the state of your country. I have the Orlesian Commander of your order of Grey Wardens wondering much the same thing. Though I shall leave him to send his own notice._

_Through the late King Cailan, and my condolences on Ferelden's loss, Orlais was entering a more open alliance between our respective nations. I should very much like to see that alliance be brought to fruition. In honor of this, I am ready to send a host of my chevalier knights to Ferelden to aid you against any further darkspawn entanglements._

_I hope to hear back from Your Majesty within the next two weeks. I also wish to congratulate you on your upcoming nuptials to Princess Cousland. One looks forward to your reply._

_Blessings of the Maker and His Bride Upon You,_

_Her Imperial Highness,_

_Empress Celene Dubetrand I_

She'd read it backwards and forwards looking for some hidden meaning, a snipe towards _her_ hidden in flowery words, but there was nothing and only a cursory mention of Cailan. The empress also seemed to know that Gwyneth's title would be 'princess' until she was wed. The noblewoman didn't think the empress would have a care for Ferelden technicalities, but apparently she was mistaken.

Dark red brows knitted together in tandem with a displeased frown.

Celene had spoken well of Anora publicly and on record, though of course that could've very likely been political jargon. Anora _did_ have her followers though, and even Gwyn had respect for the governing the woman had seen through, and it was those followers that Gwyneth worried about.

What would they say about _her_? Especially now in lieu of Anora's death, a matter that had yet to be resolved. An assassin sneaking around in the palace, making their work look like suicide and leaving unseen. It was enough to set anyone on edge.

Maybe Wynne was right. Maybe things _did_ end up the way they were suppose to, but it was hard to swallow, with so many dead or suffering for the threads of fate to come together.

Anora couldn't have been trusted with a position of nobility, where she could easily incite rebellion, and there was no doubt in Gwyneth's mind that the woman had enough anger in her to do so. Neither could she serve as a court advisor.

Gwyn had been considering an advisory position at the Circle of Magi, something for Anora's quick mind and political maneuvering, with many changes likely to take place there in. There she'd be watched over by Templars and elder mages both, the woman herself possessing nothing in the way of magic.

Now, no one would _ever_ know what good things would've yet come from Anora's still strong influence. She might have been a duplicitous bitch, but she was a shrewd and savvy one. If the assassin thought they were helping Gwyneth in any way, they were sorely mistaken. It was that thought, more than the others, that disturbed her the most. An unspoken fear that one of _her_ supporters had done this out of some twisted idea of loyalty to the Couslands.

So many things to worry about, so much to do. It was almost suffocating and if not for Arl Eamon and Wynne's assistance, Gwyneth feared she might go mad under the strain. All her girlhood dreams of what a queen's life were had little truth behind them. They were fairytales, and she was no fairytale princess, in love with a handsome king in a glittering castle where everyone lived happily ever after.

_Well, Alistair _is_ handsome. _At least _that_ much was truth, as was evidenced by the roaming eyes of the palace servants, mostly the young female ones.

With an overly dramatic sigh, Gwyneth set the letter from the empress aside, drawing up another. It had a seal on it that was easily recognizable as the Grey Warden emblem. As she opened it and began scanning the words, it made her smile with the unpracticed hand of the writer, as if he was trying extra hard to be complimentary. There were a few scribbles here and there where it looked as if he wrote something incorrectly and instead of starting over, just tried to fix it, but it was legible and in proper Fereldish.

_To My Dearest Fellow Grey Warden, or Princess Cousland,_

_I do apologize, but I am most unsure as to what I should call you and it is my solemn wish that perhaps My Lady will suffice for the rest of this note. Forgive my poor handwriting, I would give anything that my commander was writing this letter instead. Not, of course that it is a dishonor to be writing to such a respected woman . . . In fact it is a great honor indeed._

_Before I make a mockery of this correspondence further, I should introduce myself. Well as decently as one can in a letter. My name is Ser Gerod Caron, former lord of Talan within the Imperial Court of Orlais and former chevalier of her Imperial Majesty, Empress Celene I. For four years I have been a member of the Grey Wardens and have recently been afforded honors as a senior Grey Warden, though I think my age may indicate otherwise._

_I am writing this to you to inform you that our order is most curious as to the matter of your survival after facing an archdemon. Many rumors have reached us here in Orlais you see, and Commander Durant Le Mercier is unsure what to believe. I am to be sent with a small retinue of other Wardens from Orlais to meet with you and discuss these matters. _

_In addition I have been told that you are in need of more Wardens in Ferelden and have no commander. This seemed most odd to me at first, as you of course would understand, certainly I do not doubt your intelligence My Lady. Then I realized that, but of course, you cannot be Warden Commander anymore than King Alistair could, due to your responsibility to Ferelden government. We understand, certainly, and I wish to put forth my own suitability for such a position in this letter. Though as is customary, more will be decided when I arrive, yes?_

_In the meantime I should like to congratulate you and your betrothed on your forthcoming wedding. There is much to be heard here of your great cunning, charisma and beauty. One should be so lucky as to claim a woman such as that as their bride, and the people of Ferelden are lucky to have one as you for their queen. Not, of course that I think either His Majesty or your people are undeserving. Perhaps I should save compliments and congratulations for my own tongue, where I cannot ruin them so._

_But I jest, and I have babbled on with this quill at length. _

_I do not wish for our visit to interfere with the wedding, but we have heard of roaming darkspawn still in Ferelden, and a reply would be very valued. So that the Wardens of Orlais have a better understanding of a preferred arrival date. Well into the spring season now, the weather should not prove too much of a detriment on time, though I have not traveled so far in a long while._

_Please send a return correspondence as soon as you are able. I very much look forward to speaking with you, My Lady, and His Highness too of course._

_With Sincerity and Well Wishes,_

_Ser Gerod Caron, Grey Warden._

Gwyneth couldn't help but almost 'hear' the Orlesian accent bleeding through with the man's words. The letter, though a little messy, was quite charming and despite the fact that she worried over what to tell the Orlesian Wardens about her survival, that they were coming was more relief than anything.

She felt someone enter the room, that prickling sensation along her spine giving it away and she looked up to see a weary Alistair. "I'd say good morning, but it looks as if you didn't sleep well."

The king rubbed a hand around the collar of his fine shirt, starting to get a little more comfortable in such attire, but still feeling outside himself. With a slightly embarrassed note of color in his cheeks, he shook his head, moving quickly to sit at the other end of the table, farthest away from his betrothed.

"I was . . . uh . . . I had a bad dream."

Gwyneth lowered her voice so that no one else would hear. "Darkspawn?" Her gaze narrowed in concern.

"No, no, nothing like _that,_ just . . . It made me wake up feeling unrested." Brown irises darted, trying to find anything to look at but _her_.

Gwyneth's gown was simpler than most of the others, and of a light creamy coloring that made a person feel relaxed to look at it, but even that was too much. Those months and months spent traveling to defeat the Blight, and she'd rarely been wearing anything but her armor or the occasional tunic and ladies traveling breeches. Now it was gowns, fancy hair, jewelry and perfume, every . . . single . . . day.

If _that's_ what Gwyn looked like before she became a Warden, her broad tales of gaining the eye of almost anyone that looked at her, _might_ not have been so false.

'_What's the matter with me?'_ He barely even took that much notice of it before. '_Sure, she's gorgeous, so what?' _So were a lot of other women, and she was a terror to get along with for quite some time, and when they'd moved past that, she'd been more a sister than anything. '_It's the damn dream! After that sort of dream, I'd get hot and bothered over _Morrigan_. Oh, no, nope. Best not to go _there_.'_

"What's the matter with you?" She was staring, cutting holes into him with her dagger eyes.

_Was she reading his mind?_ All that he managed was a lame, "What?"

"You're mumbling to yourself under your breath."

"Was I? Oh, heh! Imagine that." He could hear the nervous mirth in his voice and winced, wishing that Gwyn would stop looking at him like he was a strange species of insect.

Finally she gave up, sighing, and collected two rolls of parchment that sat before her. Alistair almost sighed as well, in _relief_.

"Margaret!" The princess' voice rang out loud and clear.

"Yes, Your Grace?" The serving girl had never switched over her honorifics from when Gwyneth was still the Teyrna of Highever, but it didn't seem to bother the woman in question.

"Bring His Highness some breakfast, something light on his stomach and some _very_ strong tea." Her stare communicated her intent even better and the maid nodded, bobbing into a short curtsey and then she was headed back the way she'd come.

Before Alistair could say anything, Gwyneth was up and bringing the parchments over to him.

There was a natural sway to her hips that probably most females possessed, especially those with long legs . . . _very_ long legs, running up to curving hips under clingy white fabric, the waist tucking in, before flaring back out to make way for those nice, ample . . .

'_Stop it!_' _Maker preserve him, but he wasn't going to make it through the day at this rate_. Any time anyone vaguely feminine crossed his path, he'd go back to Leliana's naked image, teasing him from behind his eyelids. Instead he tried to picture _Oghren_ naked, much more disturbing and far less likely to make him aroused.

"They both arrived today, I read them of course, but so should you. Not that either of us want _more_ concerns, but both these matters will have to be dealt with eventually, and I suppose this is the beginning of the rest of our lives." False cheer made its way into the young woman's tone, face accessorized with raised brows and a quirky grin, but they were little more than set pieces, as most of her expressions were.

Gwyneth had a shocking moment just outside Orzammar once, smiling at the dwarven guardsmen, leaning down just enough give them a good view into her cleavage, where she realized what a fraud she could be. Being the practical noblewoman that she was, she didn't _stop_ being fraudulent with her expressions and emotions, she just learned to further utilize them.

Except now she found herself doing it _too_ much, as if automatically. _'It's alright if you feel like a pile of rubbish, smile anyway, look slightly amused and cute and none of it will matter'_ A light headache was beginning to pulse at her temples, successfully staging a revolt against her insincere facade, when it broke her grin.

"Oh, wonderful. I can hardly wait." Alistair answered with some false cheer of his own, unfurling the first parchment, the color of the correspondence almost the same slightly reddish gold as his hair. "Empress Celene . . . I've heard she's uniquely beautiful."

"Yes, the most beautiful woman on Thedas." Gwyneth had gone back to her own chair, fingers wrapping around a mug of tea that the maid had just brought, along with the king's refreshments, which were set on the table before him in short order.

"I thought that was _you_." His smirk that time felt pretty genuine as he glanced across the length of the dining table to find Gwyn blinking at him, and then she laughed, a short barking sound that reminded the king vaguely of Noble, the now _royal_ mabari.

"Maybe it is, though I suspect any of us attractive women of Thedas have interchanged that title at one time or another. Besides, what is that adage?"

"Beauty is in the eye of the beholder." Still reading, he spoke without even glancing up. He didn't even take the opportunity to rib Gwyneth about her momentary bout of modesty.

"Quite." She drank her tea quietly while Alistair read the next parchment. Gwyneth took note that he didn't read Celene's letter with the same paranoia that she _herself_ had.

"Hmm . . . Well, I suppose telling them . . . " Eyes looked left and right, but they were alone. Alistair leaned over the table anyway, whispering. "I suppose telling them about creating a demon baby is out of the question."

"Quiet!" The princess hissed, watching the corners of the spacious room cautiously. "And no, that can't happen. I think you and I _both_ realize the consequences of that particular path."

"Well then, this should be fun. Aww, but they don't want to come to the wedding, how sad." Alistair didn't _sound_ particularly sad. He stopped for a moment, re-reading parts of the Warden's letter, before those rich brown eyes found Gwyneth again. "It sounds like he's sweet on you, this Gerod Caron."

"Oh don't be ridiculous. I've never even _met_ the man, and no one can have feelings for someone with their appearance left unseen." With a roll of her eyes she took interest in her tea, thankful when Alistair started in on his own breakfast, but that wasn't the last of it.

"Do you think love has _everything_ to do with how easy somebody is to _look_ at?" He took a bite of poached eggs, watching Gwyn over the fork in his mouth.

"Certainly not, there are other factors . . . _presumably_, but that's not the point." Another sip of tea, dainty and practiced. "He has no idea what I look like, sound like, act like. All he has to go on are likely overblown rumors and small trickles of factual information. I'm more _legend_ to him than _reality_."

"I've heard of several incidents where someone developed feelings for the legend of a person instead of the person themselves."

"That would be absurd! It'd be to their own detriment if they did."

"I agree, but that doesn't mean that it _hasn't_ happened before." More eggs disappeared into the king's mouth, after another sip of tea.

"I see, and you heard these stories from _where_, exactly?" Her voice took on a snooty upturn, that gave Alistair a pretty good idea of where _this_ was headed, but he went forward anyway.

"They aren't _stories_, Gwyn, and I heard them from the Templars when I was practicing to become one."

"Right, because Templars are _thee_ authority on romance, being celibate as they are." A trademark Gwyneth smirk accompanied the remark, an annoyingly self important quirk.

"Do you _always_ have to sass me? Would it kill you to listen to me without rolling your eyes? You know, intimacy and love aren't exclusive."

"No, but they _are_ very closely related. _You_ were in love and _you_ had sex, after all."

'_Too sensitive, _this_ morning!' _"Look, could we not talk about this? Someone will _hear_ us." He growled, very displeased.

"_You_ started it." She pouted at him and it wasn't cute in the slightest.

"I don't _care_ who started it! I . . . I just don't want to talk about it anymore." Huffy and in a foul mood now, he ate the remainder of his breakfast, as the two of them glared at one another across the safety of the table.

"Fine with me."

"Brilliant."

On the bright side, Alistair wasn't aroused anymore.


	8. Chapter 8: Practice Makes Perfect

**Disclaimer:** _"Dragon Age: Origins" and all its expansions and additional content is the property of Bioware and EA Games. Large portions of written content within the game, as well as Dragon's Age: The Stolen Throne, and Dragon's Age: Calling, are the creation of David Gaider. Original scenarios and characters are used under the creative license of the writer, ItalianEmpress1985. No profit is being made and the following story is for entertainment purposes only_

**Words From The Author: **_I remember when first playing Origins that Alistair seemed fairly 'in charge' when you were in the Kocari Wilds, and not just because at that point he was the only Grey Warden in the battle party, but also there was a feeling that he was a natural at it. Then after what happened at Ostagar, he suddenly wasn't (though I think it was obvious why he wasn't) , and it stayed that way for the most part through Origins, until the very end. I hope I'm not the only one that felt he seemed very well suited for the kingly role during that last scene, and (slight spoiler) he's very kingly in Awakenings as well._

_So in this story, I've taken that and used it, while I'm trying to maintain some of that quirkiness that's always going to be a part of his characterization. So if you notice that he's starting to come across as more mature, it's definitely my intention. Though of course, at this early stage of his rule, there's bound to be some immaturity there, just as there is with Gwyn. So far I'm really enjoying writing him that way but if I ever slip up, you should definitely feel free to give me pointers. David Gaider I am not . . . I'm not even the right gender for that likeness. :p _

_Something also that I wanted to mention, and thusly make sure I avoid giving the wrong impression, is that my characters (or the characters adopted as my own for this story) have their own opinions on both other characters and ideas about love/hate/war/magic so on and so forth. Some of their ideas I might share, but many I likely don't. The characters aren't a sounding board for how 'I' feel. Ernest Hemingway once said: "When writing a novel a writer should create living people." As a writer I want characters to be as close to real people as possible and real people aren't caricatures, mary-sues or masks for the writer's own thoughts. So saying, if Gwyneth thinks Anora is a beyotch, that's GWYNETH'S opinion, if Fergus thinks Nathaniel is worthless, that's FERGUS' opinion, etcetera. _

_With that having been said, on with the show!_

_Thank you for stopping in. Watch out for low flying dragons!_

* * *

_**Chapter Eight:**_

**Practice Makes Perfect**

* * *

April 25'th, 9:31 Dragon Age

'_**I**__f I hadn't kissed him, it would've all been alright, just fine, really. Note to self, never do that again.'_ Gwyneth repeated the mantra several times in silence as she stood to the right of the dais, Ser Gilmore knelt before it. Mostly certainly there was nothing that could've been said to anyone about her concerns, not Fergus and definitely not Alistair. After the tense breakfast of that morning she made a vow that she would only speak to _him_ when it felt necessary or she was in the mood. Neither were the case now. With her hands clasped demurely against her sternum, she sent the king a cursory glare. '_Hmph'_!

Gilmore was a handsome sight, Fergus had seen that the young brunette was clothed as was proper for a knight commander, as he would be made once this knighting ceremony was over. The gold and green of Highever were done up in the colors of his cloak, a silver sword held by the king lain against one shoulder. Once Fergus liberated Highever, the ladies of that small city would be throwing themselves at this new great knight of Denerim.

That last night at Castle Cousland he had looked far dirtier, but no less handsome, face etched with regret and bravery as he urged the Lady and Arlessa to escape while he and the men held Howe's soldiers at bay. There wasn't much time, he said, and Gwyneth had a surge of gratitude. Before her mother could drag her off along after her, the lady of the castle had grabbed Gilmore's face in her bloodied hands and kissed him soundly. A thank you whispered into his ear as she fled.

It was a token for his sacrifice and nothing more. A sacrifice that hadn't claimed the man's life, proof of that kneeling in the throne room today. Gwyneth was almost prostrate with the worry that he would have taken more from the action. Gilmore didn't have a great sense of the more delicate particulars of court propriety and his reaction could cause her some problems. So far, however, there had been no sign of that. He'd smiled at her, expressed his joy that she was alive and kissed her hand. It was no more and no less than any other noble would have done, and they would've been completely embraced by the propriety of such actions.

"Rise now, Ser Gilmore, knight of Denerim!" Alistair had the right voice for making moving speeches, it was commanding when it needed to be, stern when required and offered proud jubilation when the moment was right. Despite his fears and the sour looks from Gwyneth today, it was clear to _her_ that he was born for this. She just didn't have to tell him that.

The other knights that stood in the hall cheered for their new member, even knowing that already the king had signed a writ that Gilmore was to enter the services of Teyrn Fergus Cousland. With a staid face akin to his sister's, Fergus stood among the knights, near them but apart as was proper. His face held none of a hidden acidity caused by a fight with one's betrothed, of course, but he didn't look ready to start sprouting rays of sunshine from his eyes either. There was anxiety to get back to Highever, but with his sister's marriage less than a week away, he knew that he had to stay until it was all over with . . . but he didn't have to be happy about it.

Alistair put his ceremonial blade back in a scabbard that was then taken away by a servant, smiling at Gilmore and patting the slightly older man on the shoulder as if he was very much his junior. "I trust that you will make Teryn Cousland a fine commander. Good luck."

Gilmore gave a small bow, friendly and full of excitement. "Thank you, Sire! I am very honored indeed!" Jubilant eyes found the cool gaze of the soon-to-be-queen and he shriveled a bit under that stare. She looked benign enough, but Gilmore knew she was worried about his thoughts. He wasn't sure what to do about it. He dared not approach her, but maybe if he did nothing she would realise what he did nearly from the very moment she kissed him. It was a thank you, he knew that and she knew that, and there wasn't anything more to it.

With another bob of his head, he had headed away from the royal dais to join the men that were now his fellows.

Teyrn Cousland walked up to the king, voice lowered. "I've received news from West Hill, they cannot offer much in the way of aid to Highever, which is unfortunate since they are closest arling. The Blight all but swallowed them up. Arl Wulff yet remains here in Denerim, and under a promise of fealty to my family, has offered both himself and those soldiers yet with him to travel with Ser Gilmore until I am able to join them. In return I've promised to make him the new seneschal of the Couslands, all two of us, and offer immediate aid in whatever form I can once Highever is taken back. What I need of you, Majesty, is a small group of your knights. We haven't forces enough and to be honest I'm not sure what to expect there."

Gwyneth grabbed her skirts and raised them enough to clear the stone as she stepped up onto the platform. "Brother? What is this whispering going on over here?"

"The teyrn is negotiating my men away from me." Alistair only briefly tilted his head in the direction of the princess before turning back to Fergus. "We've very little of our own forces here in the city, and I'll need every hand I can get to help rebuild."

"With all due respect, Highness, rebuilding should be left to the city's _laborers_. It is their _duty_ as citizens of Denerim and of Ferelden. Knights are best suited to combat, defense of their lands. I ask only for enough men to retake Highever. I would have _my sister_ take her vows as _your wife_, knowing that the lands of our family, lands we have held for over _five hundred years_, will soon be back under the rule of _her brother_." Fergus fixed the king with an intense look that Alistair knew only too well, he'd seen it many times on the face of the man's sibling.

With a heavy sigh, the tall blonde gave a half-hearted smile. "Arl Eamon _said_ the Couslands didn't become teyrnir holders by accident. I guess he was right, and you and I will be brothers soon. I don't know all that much about having a brother, I never really knew mine, but I do know that you have to do what you can for them. So, I suppose granting you some men for the trip to Highever is the least I can do." Alistair smiled lightly when Fergus gave a pleased chuckled, patting the taller man on the back.

"Good man, good man. My sister went and acquired a decent match for herself afterall. Who would've thought?"

"I _am_ standing right here, thank you very much." Gwyneth crossed her arms across her chest, the swells beneath them pressed down under the weight of her limbs. When Fergus only ribbed her gently, she offered him a grin, clearly avoiding the other man standing on the dais.

"What of Amaranthine?" Alistair posed the innocuous question, not expecting the twin glares he received.

"Majesty, the Howe name has been stripped of its honors. Thomas Howe is dead, killed defending the lands from darkspawn. The other two _children_, they are title-less and can offer us _nothing_. Did you not grant the lands of Amaranthine to your Grey Wardens? It is my understanding that only common soldiers are there at present until you can install someone as seneschal. There is no help to be found." Fergus raised a brow of cinnamon, not only perturbed, but curious as to why the king would even bring it up again.

"Well, yes I did, and Gwyneth and I both agreed that the Howe name did not deserve to be included among the nobility, but I've been thinking, common soldiers are better than none at all."

"Oh, dear . . . " Gwyneth groaned, all but resisting to slap her hand against her forehead in frustration. A feeling that only grew when Alistair ignored her.

"You need all the aid you can get, and maybe we were too hasty. It isn't as if we should blame the children for the sins of their father, not _fairly_. I didn't blame _Anora_ for her father's actions. It made me cautious, yes, but she was untrustworthy all on her own and that's what had her put in the dungeon, that and her refusal to accept that she wasn't queen anymore. Not _Loghain's_ treachery." In the recesses of Alistair's mind, Leliana's voice echoed, telling him that he would make his _own_ legends. "I would be a king of my own accord, not a mold of my father, and I'd like to think that others can be the same. Their own people, apart from their parents. Not to mention that the soldiers that remain at Amaranthine, protecting it from anyone that tries to retake the city, are _not_ related to the family you so despise."

"Now there's a lofty thought." Fergus' voice had the same snotty lilt his little sister could achieve, if not a bit more dangerous with the male rumbling under the surface of it. Silver eyes narrowed severely on the face of the new sovereign. "Sire, you don't know the Howes. Of the three heirs to the former arling, Thomas was the best and brightest, and perhaps it is unfortunate _he_ is no longer with us, but of Delilah and Nathaniel, repartion through acts of nobility are out of the question. Delilah is insipid and entirely incapable of handling anything serious, she would be of no use, and Nathaniel is too much like the late arl and a wild-man now if the rumors are true. My father trusted Rendon Howe, he was his _friend_, and the man betrayed him. By deed and planning he _killed_ my father, my mother, my wife, my son and nearly my sister! I'll not make the same mistake of trusting a Howe! Nor will I invite those that spent decades under their influence!"

A few eyes from the knights strayed over to the dais and Alistair lowered his pitch as he spoke. "I'm only suggesting that you think about it. I don't even know where either of them are, really. Right now there is only a steward at Amaranthine. We've let them be until the Wardens from Orlais arrive, and I only received a letter from them this morning. So far there hasn't been any trouble" Alistair felt himself recoilng under Teryn Cousland, but he was determined to stand his ground.

"I _will_ think on it then, but it's nothing that can be utilized any time soon. Maybe we can revisit the issue of the Howes and any further influence they have in Ferelden, at a later date." Fergus bowed. "Highness." With that, he took his leave.

If Gwyneth had anything to add, she was silent on the subject, which was rarely a good sign. It just meant Alistair would hear it later, and in sharp detail.

"Let's get going, we have to get started with our dancing. Did you remember to ask for the court musicians this morning, or were you still thinking up ways of picking fights with me?" Gwyneth stood at Alistair's side, speaking to him for the first time since breakfast.

"Don't start in on me again, Gwyn, and yes, of course I remembered. How could I forget? You wouldn't let me hear the end of it, if I did. Though at least dancing will be easier than when you strapped me to the dining chair to teach me proper table etiquette." A dark blonde brow lifted at the woman, but she was still glaring. He could barely remember their argument and he suspected it was the same for her, but she was determined to hold on to her displeasure, and apparently had blamed it all on _him_. '_Typical_!' With a shake of his head, he was making strides away from her and she was lucky she had legs long enough to keep up.

* * *

Wynne watched as the two nobles made an excellent attempt at dancing. The musicians that played were growing exasperated with the same tune over and over, but this was a practice waltz for the real thing, and as they often said, practice makes perfect.

"Alistair! Stop stepping on my toes!"

"You make it sound as if I'm doing it on purpose!"

This was the Royal Waltz and was a required dance following the wedding of the king and queen. With the majority of the nobility of Ferelden watching, from arls to minor lords, they would expect that the king knew what he was doing. Wynne had never seen it performed, so she had a hard time judging, but so far Alistair looked to be doing alright. The mage was beginning to suspect that the princess was _looking_ for things to complain about.

"Put your hand on my hip, there now step to the left, slowly, slide your foot along with mine. There. Take my right hand with your left, loose enough that you can twirl me. Right, good. Now twirl, I'll move with you." Gwyneth had studied all the dances of Ferelden, and nearly all the dances from Teviniter, Orlais and Antiva. Nothing taught grace better than dancing, where your body became an instrument, your movements the tune. She didn't want to admit it, but for someone that had probably never learned a ball room dance in his life, Alistair was doing well on just her instructions alone.

Alistair could feel her muscles tense through the dress as her back was pressed against his ribcage and he swallowed, nervous at the intimacy involved in this waltz. After twirling her there seemed to be a long breath of time where neither of them moved, then her voice came at him again, reverberating through her ribs and thusly into his chest.

"Twirl me back to the right, ready for a long slide to the left. Follow my foot again with your own. Slowly, slowly. There."

The grand ballroom was like no other room in all the palace. Tall pillars dominated it, holding up a roof that made Wynne think of pillows, the white stone above made to look like pockets. Swirling damasque carvings decorated the points of the ceiling. Against each pillar was a fancy candelabra, standing tall and proud, their small ivory candles flickering with the orange flames that danced around their wicks like Alistair and Gwyneth were now dancing around the gilded pillars. Her heels and his boots touched the marble floor. Each carefully lain piece of the Tevinter imported tile was decorated in minute detail, the smokey swirls in the dark red of the marble itself like wisps of smoke across the glittering hide of a dragon.

This room had King Cailan's presence in every corner of it. His love of grandeur brought to life with care and crafting. The windows were as tall as the walls, and wider than a dozen men standing together. Sunlight touched on the squares of painted glass, sending patterns to flit about the floor. The rest of the palace couldn't compare with the opulence found here. Most of what little decoration there was in the palace as a whole, had been a part of Maric's rule and those that came before him, where early barbarian influence could still be seen. But here, in this place, a new age wrapped itself around any within the room, so that they could _feel_ how different it was.

It was breath-taking, but standing there, Wynne stood beside Gwyneth's lady in waiting, the elven Siofra, they both were enchanted for an entirely different reason. Alistair had gotten the Royal Waltz down, his every step matching Gwyneth's. As her white skirt twirled around her calves, his ivory cloak moved behind him like a cloud through a windy sky. They looked at one another with an obvious displeasure, likely brought on by some argument or the like, but the language of their bodies moved in a harmony that was a delight to see.

"_Maker_! Look at them! The way they move! What I would've given to see them in battle together, they must have fought with beauty." Siofra pondered wistfully, sapphire gaze reflecting the figures of her mistress and the king. "Such grace! I wouldn't have thought humans to be so liquid." That pale face turned to look abjectly at the elderly mage beside her. "Ah, my apologies Milady Wynne."

"Nothing to be sorry for, elves generally _are_ more graceful than humans, and I am no _lady_, dear girl." The mage smiled, blue eyes twinkling and nearly the same color as the elf beside her. She thought on Siofra's words. It wasn't normal to say there was beauty in fighting, but recalling the way all of them had worked together, those months of fighting darkspawn, ruffians, monsters and demons . . . _Yes, there had been beauty in that. _It was a dance they had all learned the moves to, but thinking back on it, it was Gwyneth and Alistair that had been the head of that dance. The only two Grey Wardens in all of Ferelden, _and hadn't they looked the part._

'_What are they now?_' Wynne wondered silently, watching the pair of them move, twirling, lifting, sliding. '_More the Grey Wardens, or more king and queen?_' Who they _had_ been, what she knew of them, had changed during the course of those six months, and now it was yet changing again. Neither of them had been out on the practice field of the palace, or if they had, Wynne certainly wasn't aware of it. No more battle, or even practicing battle. Every day was spent learning the steps of this new life and the transition wasn't _nearly_ as smooth as this waltz had become. After Anora's death, the friendship they had seemed to be full of sniping and bickering, something neither of them hid very well from those that lived in the palace with them, namely Wynne herself. There were still smiles on occasion, but what had become a nearly sibling-esque friendship, was twisting and bending to create . . . whatever this was Wynne saw before her now.

But it was clear, that no matter what changes had happened, or had yet to take place, they still moved in a harmony that must have been blessed. Wynne continued to watch them dance, smiling to herself at the image. Both of them had agreed to this union with little enthusiasm, and at least on Alistair's side, much heartache. Maybe that would never go away entirely. Eamon had expressed a desire to see them in a happy marriage, but even _he_ had little in the way of hope that it would happen, but if they could rule in simpatico together as they danced in unison, it might be alright. Not _perfect_, but _alrigh_t, and that was better than _some_ political marriages of the past.

"Then one last twirl and . . . Oh!" Gwyneth let out a surprised gasp as Alistair bent her over his arm in a dramatic dip, the end of her long braid almost touching the floor. She looked up at him in shock before those silver eyes narrowed.

"What? You always said you liked a little flourish." With an impish grin, he let her go, bowing to the woman as she bent to a curtsey. The finishing touches of the Royal Waltz. "So, what do you say Wynne, am I going to embarrass Her Highness terribly?"

"I think you'll do just fine." She smiled at him warmly as he squeezed her shoulder lightly in affection.

"Easy for _you_ to say, he didn't almost just drop _you_ on the floor." Gwyneth swept by them both, with all the regality of a pissed off swan. A thirsty swan. She hurriedly reached for the tray of water goblets the servants had brought in, waving at the three musicians to stop playing. They looked pretty grateful.

"I _didn't_ almost drop you, I was _trying_ to be fancy. You used to like things like that." Brown eyes glittered with a bit of anger.

"I _do_ like fancy things, but I _don't_ like being dropped on the floor." She made a stern rephrased repetition of her previous accusation.

"Oh, for love of the Maker! There's no pleasing you, is there?" Alistair groused, downing half a goblet of water.

Siofra didn't say anything, making a chore of sweeping her hands along her mistress' skirts, straightening them out. Wynne shook her head, exasperated.

"Might I speak with the both of you, privately?" Her tone wasn't one that left space for refusal, and king and princess-in-waiting or no, when Wynne spoke like _that_, they still listened.

Leaving the grand ballroom behind, the three of them stepped into one of the palace's many antechambers. Quiet, secluded and above all, too small for Alistair and Gwyneth to avoid one another.

"Alright, now I have had enough of you two! The servants can see you, and your visitors surely will and in less than a week you are going to be husband and wife. Do you _really_ want that union to be sealed under the weight of rumors that the king and queen despise each other?" Wynne fixed each of them with a stern look in turn.

"I don't _despise_ Alistair!"

"I _like _Gwyn!"

"Really? Because that _isn't_ what I saw today, or yesterday, or the day before that. Do you mind telling me what is going on?" Thin white brows lifted over blue eyes.

Alistair rubbed at the back of his neck, a nervous habit. He might have paced back and forth, but there wasn't enough room. "She's always ready to get angry at me or criticize me."

"_Me_?! Well if _you_ weren't such a jackass, I wouldn't criticize you!"

"And if _you_ weren't such a bitch, you'd realize I'm only speaking my mind! I'm _not_ a jack ass!"

"What?! How dare . . ."

"Stop it, stop it, stop it!" With each enunciated command Wynne's staff hit the floor, making a loud noise as it connected with the tiles. These days she had to carry it with her always, to use as support. She was growing weaker and weaker, she could feel it all the way to her soul. The very least she could ask of these two was to make peace with one another, so she might see them _modestly_ happy before she went to join the Maker. At this rate, it looked next to impossible that they ever would. The aging mage rarely raised her voice, certainly not to shouting, but her frustration drew it out. Both Alistair and Gwyneth ceased their sniping almost immediately, turning shocked expressions on Wynne. Some of the woman's weariness must have been made clear, because Gwyneth had her elbow.

"Wynne, we're sorry, we did not mean to upset you. Please, sit down."

"Stop coddling me, young lady." Those blue eyes softened, but she remained stern. She didn't take a seat, but she did lean into the wall for support. "What you _should_ be worried about instead, is all this fighting you both seem to be engaging in, on a regular basis I might add." They each began to speak, but Wynne held up a palm to motion them to silence. "No, I don't want to hear more 'he said, she said' and see more pointing fingers. _Both_ of you are to blame. It takes two people to dance a Royal Waltz and it takes two people to fight like foul-mouthed children."

Gwyneth folded like a handkerchief. "You're right, of course. I'm just . . . You cannot understand the pressure."

"Can't I? Oh, I think I _can_." A wry grin follows and it draws an answering one from the younger woman.

"I'm very glad for your help, and of the irreplaceable Eamon as well, but while you two are of _enormous_ assistance, I still feel like I'm drowning in a sea of tasks. Little annoying ones that keep adding up, like droplets of water in a bucket. Nothing much at first, but as more drops fall, the bucket becomes almost too heavy to lift." Silver eyes slide in Alistair's direction and soften on his face. "And I've been taking it out on _you_, finding myself growing irritated at things that I shouldn't be. You are going through this _with_ me, I know that, but . . . it's difficult to see past my own discomfort. I realize that's selfish but . . . well, there it is." Gwyneth shrugs, but she's trying to smile and it's nearly successful.

Alistair waits for her to finish, feeling immensely self conscious when she's done. "Oh, is it my turn then?"

"Yes, Alistair." Wynne tries not to laugh. Now that she's prompted them to speak out their problems, she doesn't want to sidetrack such a thing.

"I never knew that you felt the same weight I was feeling, but I should've. I'm sorry that you have to teach me all these things. I wish I could wave my hands and I'd already know everything that I have to learn, but I can't." He frowns, drawing down the handsome lines of his face. "Maybe you _do_ start most of our arguments, but maybe _not_. This morning I think it was _me_, and then when you got angry I just made it worse. I kept needling at you when I should've let it go, and . . . I'm sorry. I'll try to be better, I _want_ to be better, but this whole 'king' thing, I'm terrible at it."

Gwyneth has her hand on his arm, garnering his attention as he looks at her, his face so sorrowful that the princess almost wants to hug him, but doesn't. "You aren't terrible at all. This morning during the knighting, I disliked you _immensely_, but even for that, I couldn't help but think what a _good_ king you are making. You are a natural at this."

A short laugh of disbelief escapes Alistair's mouth. "Now you're just overcompensating."

"With others, maybe . . . probably." A smirk, focused on her private memories. "But not with _you_. Even if you weren't my friend, even if you weren't a brother to me when I had none, I'm fairly certain that I'll be stuck with you for a long time. I'd rather you have a realistic vision of yourself, it makes you more bearable."

Wynne snorted, shaking her head ruefully. Even apologizing, Gwyneth just _couldn't_ be genuinely sweet about it. The few times the mage could recall anything resembling sweetness from the noblewoman, it had been as fake as silver paint on a wooden sword. She was a nice girl though, when she _wanted_ to be.

"Umm, thanks, I think." Alistair rubbed at the scruff on his chin, wondering, not for the first time, if he shouldn't like to grow a goatee.

"You're welcome. Now, Wynne, if you are all done scolding us, the kitchens have some raspberry tortes with my name on them."

"Gwyn, you're going to get fat if you keep eating those things." Alistair grinned like a mad cap at the thought.

"Pfft, _you're_ one to talk." The princess poked him lightly in the gut. "Cheese addict."

Wynne sighed heavily. The task of making them behave would be impossible, but at the very least their jabs were friendly . . . for now.

--


	9. Chapter 9: The May Queen

**Disclaimer:** _"Dragon Age: Origins" and all its expansions and additional content is the property of Bioware and EA Games. Large portions of written content within the game, as well as Dragon's Age: The Stolen Throne, and Dragon's Age: Calling, are the creation of David Gaider. 'Once and Future King' is the creation of T.H. White. Original scenarios and characters are used under the creative license of the writer, ItalianEmpress1985. No profit is being made and the following story is for entertainment purposes only_

**Words From The Author: **_This title comes from Arthurian legend. The May Queen is a loose title often given to Queen Guinevere, in several versions of the tale. 'Once and Future King' contains my favorite Arthur/Guinevere relationship, in book form at least. As well as a humanizing glimpse into the life of a medieval trophy queen. Gwyn's character is partially inspired by White's characterization of Guinevere, especially her paranoid vanity. :p_

_There's a painting of Guinevere being delivered to Arthur to be married, carrying two laurel branches. The crest of Highever is a pair of laurel leaves. Coincidence? :p Yes it probably is, but a fun one, so you'll find a little homage to the painting in here._

_White wedding gowns were not used customarily until some time well past the dark ages and the early renaissance, of which two time periods I'm fairly certain Dragon Age straddles in spirit. So Gwyn's gown will be more indicative of what might've been used during such a transitional time period, though I'm no expert on the subject. The wedding itself is somewhat of an amalgam of early pagan weddings, traditional Christian weddings, and something I made up strictly for Dragon Age. My editor once told me, that if you can't be romantic, try to be grand, so I hope I've succeeded in that._

_There is a link to the musical piece that was used to inspire the ceremony itself, certainly not typical of wedding music, but far more suitable to the tone and environment of 'this' wedding. I've placed the link in my profile, listed under 'extras'._

_French to English translations courtesy of Bing:_

_* Ma fille cher - My dear girl_

_Thank you for stopping in. Watch out for low flying dragons!_

* * *

_**Chapter Nine:**_

_**The May Queen**_

* * *

_Oh yes, I'm the great pretender._ _Pretending that I'm doing well._

_Too real is this feeling of make-believe._

_Too real when I feel what my heart can't conceal._

_My need is such, I pretend too much. I'm lonely, but no one can tell._

_I seem to be, what I'm not, you see._ _I'm wearing my heart like a crown._

- _The Platters_

* * *

"_**L**__ook at them! Tis that not the most sickening display you have ever seen?" Morrigan glared in the direction of the central camp, Leliana singing to Alistair while cuddled up next to him._

"_Leave them be Morrigan, one would think you were jealous." A wry grin from Gwyneth as she stuffed a bit of salted pork into her mouth._

_The two of them were seated cross-legged at the fire of Morrigan's own area of the campsite for that evening, far enough away for private conversation, but not so far as to be deaf to the vibrancy of Leliana's musical voice._

"_Pfah! I pity anyone that gets attached to _that_ great idiot. Though the 'bard' is as much a ninny as he is. Tis a good match, they are as alike as two donkeys." With a snort, the mage reached for her own meal, or what passed for it. _

_It might not have been the buffet _Gwyneth_ was used to, but even back in the Wilds, there had been better food to be had than that. _

_"Do you not ever get tired of it?"_

"_Salted pork? Oh, of a surety." The red-head made a face at the remnants of it, wiping her hands on the blades of long grass as she inspected her dusty traveling cloak for bits of the dried meat. The lap of luxury it wasn't._

"_No, of this _life_, this _place_. I cannot fathom you spending the rest of your existence like this." More common was a look of irritation or sarcastic humor on Morrigan's face, but just then she was wearing a façade of interest and something akin to concern. Golden eyes touched the fine planes of Gwyneth's features until their eyes met._

_The noblewoman shrugged. "I would much rather be back in my gowns, seducing poor saps into giving me presents." A snicker shared between the two women, but Gwyneth soon sobered. "I don't know what I would do if I didn't have _some_ duty to fulfill. I didn't want to be a Grey Warden, not at all. I was screaming, crying, flailing my limbs, beating on that damnable Duncan's chest, but it was for naught. For a time I hated that man, but I think I understand his need now. His need was Ferelden's need. 'We Couslands always do our duty to king and country.' My father told me that. But, would I like to be away from Ferelden? Yes, there are times I'd love nothing better."_

"_So why not do so? After this Blight is over, you will have 'done your duty', such as it is. You can travel wherever you like." Morrigan made a face of disgust at her hunk of pork, tossing it aside where Gwyneth's mangy beast would find it._

"_I suppose I could, I can look for my brother. You could come with me, you know? I'd like the company." She watched the marsh witch closely, the feelings she felt churning beneath her ribs threatening to spill over into her gaze, but only that far. Gwyneth Cousland could face down darkspawn with regularity now, but she couldn't tell the black mage, that lovely woman, that she loved her. She couldn't even tell _herself.

"_Then we both ride off into the sunset?" Morrigan snorted in humor, but a smile was teasing at the edges of that full mouth._

"_Why not? Seems fairly plausible to me. Not that I believe in happy endings of course, but for a time I could pretend, fool myself into thinking it was so." A short laugh and a smile, Leliana's singing forgotten in lieu of the private moment between Morrigan and Gwyneth. "No one on Thedas can pretend nearly as well as _I_ can."_

* * *

**May 1'st, 9:31 Dragon Age**

**A** rainbow of tents decorated the coastline, sat just outside the walls of Denerim, the palace at their backs, and the wide stone cobbles that protected the private royal harbor to the south. On that small piece of land, there was to be a wedding that would put all others to shame. It was the day the King of Ferelden took a queen.

From the palace itself, furniture had been borrowed and arduously moved over a course of two days, everything from small ovens, to tables, dining chairs and vanities.

A wide wooden arch had been built on one of the small knolls overlooking the royal docks, ships below brought in with their white sails fluttering like low lying clouds. Above the arch was the sunburst cross of the Maker, the god Himself called upon to watch over a marriage that was not simply for the sake of matrimony itself, but of a nation.

Tall stoneware pots lined the walkway to the arch and the altar before it, set at intervals between the long rows of wooden benches. Beside them, flowering lilac bushes had been transferred from the palace gardens to their temporary home. They were the favorite blossoms of the soon-to-be-queen and the servants would make sure everything went according to her plans and tastes.

Servants rushed about that picturesque setting, hurrying to get things done before the tolling bells from the far off chantry rang across the plains of northeast Ferelden.

A long roll of white gauzy fabric was unraveled down a straight line from the edges of the benches to the altar, a long gold tasseled runner lain across that. Behind that setup was the sea of tents, the colors of the noble families of Ferelden blending in a dazzling display of collected wealth, power and influence.

Out beyond the glittering glass of the Amaranthine Sea, there were no dark denizens, only thoughts of the future. That day was an occasion to be remembered, a bright spot in a dreary present . . . for the _guests_ at least. For the bride and groom it was a different story.

* * *

The king and the princess-in-waiting had separate tents, each huge and housing their temporary quarters for their fittings, where they would be placed into the almost garish attire for the nuptials. The servants would be there and the royal party as well, the noble_men_ with Alistair and the noble_women_ with Gwyneth; those that had enough luck or providence to be considered especially important that day.

Arl Eamon Guerrein and Arlessa Isolde Guerrein had the privilege of being Patron and Matron of Honor respectively and were the untitled leaders of the royal party. In charge of everything from the wedding rings, to the crown settings. Teyrn Fergus Cousland had another well touted position as he would be the one to escort his sister down the aisle, towards the altar where she would become the queen of Ferelden.

Alistair fidgeted, the wine colored cloak feeling weighted where it had been padded at his shoulders to make him look taller. He wasn't sure why he needed that, he was tall already. The king's nerves were completely shot, and any time one of the men in the tent spoke, he nearly jumped.

The long mirror that he stood before was playing tricks on him, showing him a reflection that had to be someone else. Alistair had grown up falling asleep in stables, playing in the mud, taking little care with his appearance and his clothes. The person in that mirror was nigh on impeccable and ever so impressive.

"Are you listening to me?" Eamon's voice broke through the murmur of the others, in a tent more spacious than a room at any of the dozen inns Alistair stayed at while on the road.

A brief nod of the king's head, for he was feeling too out-of-body to do much more than that.

"You stand on the dais with me, and for love of the Maker, _smile_ boy! Smile! Make sure the people know you are _happy_ to be taking a queen today." Eamon's tone was kind, but firm.

'_But I'm heart sick over it.'_ Alistair wanted to say.

He couldn't seem to shake that dream about Leliana, the end of it where she asked him why he was marrying Gwyn. He'd told her that he would love her forever, but forever had ended, and his love now was nothing but a poisonous snake, coiling about his heart before sinking its fangs into it.

The weeks spent getting accustomed to Gwyneth as his lady should've prepared him for the wedding, making the ceremony little more than another item on a list of things that needed doing . . . but it hadn't.

Alistair wanted to tear his cloak off, throw the crown to the ground and bolt from the tent, long legs carrying him across the populated hill, into the city, past the walls and to freedom. Of course he did none of that, only stood there, nodding numbly as his uncle rattled off the ceremony. It seemed simpler than the coronation, but it felt worse, _so_ much worse.

Bann Teagan Guerrein reached across Alistair's shoulders to secure the clasps that held his cloak in place. He offered the young king a smile, and patted him on the shoulder. "You are a very lucky man." There was something a touch bitter in that, but it passed with the genuine familiarity and warmth of feeling for his extended nephew. "She will make you a beautiful queen."

Gwyneth was beautiful, there was no doubt of that, but she'd never be _his_. Not really, and Alistair didn't want her to be. The most beautiful woman in all the world couldn't compare to Leliana. '_Gwyn is my friend, almost my sister, and I'm going to _marry_ her_?!' He knew it was coming, knew he had to get used to it, but it still felt surreal . . . like a nightmare.

Leliana singing to him. Gwyneth bitching at him. Leliana smiling at him with love. Gwyneth smirking at him in humor. Leliana laying beside him, close to his side, whispering sweet nothings. Gwyneth standing behind him, with her hand against his back, urging him forward. An Orlesian accent. A Fereldish accent.

There was no comparing the women. Gwyn _couldn't_ take Leliana's place, she was gone, and just then was the first time Alistair had really allowed himself to believe it.

Leliana hadn't been aware of the fashionable side of Ferelden nobility, she'd spoken several times of how she thought the country had no fashion sense at all. She would've loved seeing all the finery on display at the wedding.

A cloying grief stuck in Alistair's throat and he barely managed to croak a request for some water.

* * *

Gwyneth Cousland. _Gwyneth Theirin_. Grey Warden. _Queen of Ferelden_. Friend. _Wife_.

All those people were staring back at her with looking glass eyes, silver on silver, cinnamon brows rose thin above them. A heavy sigh traveled through her ribs as her ladies fussed around her.

Isolde was happily weaving an ivory ribbon through the tight spaces of the crown-like braid wrapped about Gwyneth's skull. Humming low, as she worked, as if she hadn't sent her nephew by marriage away, as if she hadn't had a fit and sat in it at Gwyneth's first interruption into her life. As if everything was just grand.

Gwyn tried not to glower at the woman, she didn't have any reason to hate her, but she didn't care overmuch for the arlessa either, but they were going to be family. The princess reminded herself of that as Isolde assisted her. Bygones should be bygones, her new life began as fresh as it could. Thinking back on her own actions, Gwyneth could not really fault Arlessa Isolde for _everything_. She was a mother who loved her son and was in a panic to protect him. It did not excuse her actions, but the former teyrna thought she might understand, and that was the first step in the right direction.

"I know what you're thinking. It is not so mysterious . . ." Isolde's voice came so quietly and quickly that Gwyn almost didn't notice it. She might not have were it not for the Orlesian accent that set the arlessa apart from the Fereldish women that occupied that tent.

"Pardon?"

"I . . . I know I am not your favorite person, but I'm . . . enjoying myself today. I like helping you." There was a shy smile on the other red-head's face, that Orlesian mouth tight but happy, and genuinely so.

"Ah, well . . . thank you." Gwyneth's gaze strayed to Wynne, the white haired woman looking splendid in the golden gown she had on, a match to the bridal retinue, and it was the first time Gwyn had ever seen the woman in anything but mages robes. Those wouldn't have suited that day, just as Wynne wouldn't have suited as the Matron of Honor. The princess felt a pang at that, she would've liked to have the trusted and beloved mage at her side, but propriety had to take precedence.

"Connor is my first born and I think he shall be my only child, never did I have a daughter and I would've missed out on this. I _love_ weddings. Ferelden is usually so dull, but at noble weddings everyone looks so fine and pretty." The last bit was whispered conspiratorially. From one snob to another.

Gwyneth only nodded, bits and pieces of other conversations blending into a humming cacophony in her ears. She reached a hand up to toy with one of the pearl teardrops that sat in a pierced ring, a match to one on the other ear. She wasn't looking forward to the wedding in the slightest, but as she admired herself in the mirror, a smile curled her lips. _A perfect ceremony, not exactly, but was the bride lovely? Yes and yes_. There would be appreciative glances aplenty, and Gwyneth's self awareness had always lent itself to enjoyment of admiration.

That happy thought did little to maintain a bubbly mood, however.

She tried to remember why she was doing it, and it was harder to recall than one might imagine. Though weeks had been spent growing accustomed to the state of things, nothing had felt so monumental as that day, which only made sense, but it _didn't _make it any easier to accept.

Alistair would grow to resent her, Gwyn was more than positive of that now. Each morning that he had to wake up to Gwyneth, instead of Leliana, he'd start to hate himself, and then her. It was too late though, as the eleventh hour quickly approached.

From the outside it was a perfect match, they physically looked gorgeous next to each other, and the combination of Cousland and Theirin respect and influence was staggering, but from the view from the inside pointed out the truth. It was a flawed setup. Gwyneth could feel the cracks in the foundation and she wasn't entirely sure that they could be sealed up.

For a panicked moment, Gwyneth felt like the whole thing was inescapable. _The Maker wanted her to be queen, she was meant to be from her birth_. To some it might be a pleasant enough thought, to her it was a sign that her life wasn't under her control nearly as much as she'd like.

Once upon a time she would've yearned for it,_ but now _. . . the idea filled her with a desire to run, to _keep_ running until she was far away from that place. It gripped her, that sudden panic and she couldn't catch her breath for the rapid beating under her ribs. The princess almost gasped for air, a hand pressed against the boning of her corset, chest heaving as she tried not to hyperventilate.

Isolde stopped her fussing and leaned down. "Are you alright?"

"Y-Yes, I'm fine." The 'fine' was a bit squeaky, and Gwyneth fought the urge not to react further. _'It's alright. Relax.'_

Isolde looked down to find that the princess had taken a grip of the vanity's edge with both hands, knuckles white and shaking. The arlessa turned to one of the many servants hovering about them like a cloud of giggles, chatter and dresses. "I brought some lavender smelling salts with me, they are in my luggage there by the screen. Fetch them."

"Yes, Your Ladyship."

When they were in Isolde's hand, she passed them to the rapid-breathing Gwyn. "Here, open the vial and take a large draft, make sure the fumes enter your airway."

Gwyneth did so and almost choked on the strong fragrance, but as she braced herself and took another long whiff of the smelling salts, she could feel herself relax from the spicy and flowery aroma.

"I remember my own wedding." Isolde closed her eyes at the thought, her mind traveling to places of regret for actions well in the past. _A king will be waiting at the end of an aisle for the young woman seated before her now, a king that was once a boy, a boy that the arlessa had sent away in a fit of jealousy_.

Shame colored her cheeks pink as she realized Alistair didn't hold a grudge, as he'd nodded at her kindly that morning when he'd spotted her. Isolde wasn't aware of how to begin making amends, and so she would stay at his bride's side. She would be the best Matron of Honor in a century of them, and maybe that's where it started. "I was so nervous I thought my heart was going to burst through my chest and go bouncing away." She finished, as Gwyneth looked at her as if she was waiting.

"Oh, dear, now _there's_ an image." A smirk from the princess was reflected in the glass and it did Isolde good to see it.

Then the woman's face fell, her eyes filled with an unmistakable sorrow. _She _isn't_ a loving wife-to-be, this is _duty, _and it's a painful one_. "I . . . I don't know if I can do this."

The words were low but Isolde heard them, glancing around her to make sure no one was listening. Court-Mage Wynne was making an excellent commander for the activity in Gwyneth's tent, leaving Isolde free to tend to the not-so-blushing bride.

"Ma fille cher, you saved my village, myself, my son and my husband. My only regret in all that is that I did not realize your character sooner. After all you have made it through, a wedding is barely a challenge at all, no? You _can_ do this." Isolde smiled, putting a light hand against the younger woman's cheek in a show of her support. "Once you get past today, it will be easier, I promise you that."

Gwyneth closed her eyes tightly, but the tears escaped anyway, sliding down her cheeks. She tried to be discreet about it, and dabbed lightly at her face, more grateful than anything when Isolde snuck her a handkerchief. More so when the arlessa said nothing of her crying, but let her have her grief before she had to put her happy face back on. _Cosmetics, they cover almost everything, even melancholy._

* * *

Imported from Tevinter the gown was lavish, and new in its styling, catching the eye immediately. Red and rich as wine, a wide gold sash wrapped across the breast, the tails of the ribbon trailing down the long train, held aloft by two servants dressed in simpler gowns of the same gold. The top was tight and corseted, panels of glimmering golden silk visible through the folds, the skirt flaring out wide as the woman wearing it moved with a slow grace. It was like nothing the nobility had seen to date, and there were many sounds of surprise and interest at the new fashion the princess had donned.

Gwyneth was the walking visage of the new age that her marriage would herald.

Her head was held high, her face was hidden behind a length of a gauzy white veil, a wreath of baby breaths crowned atop her head. Only her hands were visible, as they held two laurel branches before her during her procession down the aisle, Teyrn Fergus Cousland walking beside her in step. Arlessa Isolde was on the other side, holding a velvet pillow, the item upon it hidden under a veil of its own.

Music swelled from a dais made for the royal musicians, the pipe organ a little too heavy to be dragged out onto the private hill. It was grand and triumphant, more the song of heroes returning from war than a song for a wedding, but it was certainly no ordinary ceremony. That wedding was the joining of not only the king to his queen, but of the sovereigns to the land, and of the most powerful, and the oldest noble houses in Ferelden.

All the collective heads turned at the trumpets' call, watching as the bride made her way down the golden runner that served as the outdoor aisle. It was a fine spring day, and as their May queen made her way to her groom, the sunlight seemed to caress her and the retinue that followed behind.

The Knights of Denerim lined the aisle, their silver ceremonial armor polished, dark red cloaks hanging from their shoulders. Serious were their faces as they held tall shining spears out and then aloft, making a grand arch of gleaming metal high enough for the nobles and servants to pass beneath. At the head of the procession two young girls from the Dragon's Peak bannorn tossed bits of lilacs onto the ground, smiling in their grand little dresses.

Upon the altar stood the king, Arl Eamon to his left, holding a small bejeweled box and Bann Teagan to his right, a long rope of loose red rose and ivy garland lain across his arms.

It was not a day for the king's royal armor, and he was instead dressed in a broad and puffed doublet, falling to a length just above his knees, the likes of which he'd never lain eyes on before. He suspected it was the princess' doing, her flair for dramatic changes in fashion not lost on him.

Another import from Tevinter and a grand one at that. A rich dark red, the silk garment was embroidered in swirls of gold damasque-like patterns, matched by a sash at the waist that was made to mimic golden hammered metal. Slash-cut imperium breeches tucked into his shiny black boots, their dark color set off by the red to be found under the slashes, like a splash of color in the night. His cloak felt long and heavy as it hung to complete the grandiose outfit. The sunlight glinted against the dark gilded crown, lain proud atop his golden hair, the sun finding every teasing bit of red hidden amongst the blonde.

Gwyneth's long train and skirt were raised by the servants, as she made dainty steps up onto the dais. A long swell of violins hit a crescendo and then quieted for the vows that would soon be forthcoming.

The princess stopped before her groom, the laurel branches offered in silence to him as a symbol of her maidenhood, sacrificed for her union to both her king and the country. Alistair took them from her slowly and to applause from the gathered nobles, smiling with strain as Gwyneth moved to stand next to him and they turned to face one another. Alistair could see nothing of his bride's expression, only the faint outline of her features under the cloudy white fabric that covered her face.

"With purity and beauty, doth offered under the sight of the Maker and the eyes of the people, will His Majesty remove the veil and show to all, his bride and the face she does possess?" The Grand Cleric was looking a bit more chipper than she was during the coronation, her voice ringing out across that hill to the ears of all gathered for the event.

"Yes." Alistair nodded and slowly removed both the wreath crown and the veil with it, lifting it from Gwyneth's head to reveal the cinnamon braid of ribbon-adorned hair. In the sunlight it almost looked like blood. He could hear whispering and murmurs from their guests and as the king looked at his bride's face, he could see why.

She was an exquisite sight to behold, an already lovely canvas worked to perfection by the tireless efforts of her ladies. Silver eyes watched him, and though he was expecting her to be more put together than he was, Gwyneth looked terrified. When he took both of her hands with his, he could feel the light tremors running through her fingers.

Bann Teagan stepped forward with the loose garland, and at a nod from the Grand Cleric he moved to wrap it around Gwyneth and Alistair's hands, binding them with the greenery and flowers, as if bound by a rope. The bann stepped back with a smile as the cleric put her palm over the joined hands of the couple on the altar.

"So now as your hands are bound together, forever more, from this day until death parts you, joined in mind, heart, soul and body. Two people made into one, here under the sight of the Maker and of these witnesses. There shall be no greater love nor honor held above you, beyond your people and your lands. Together you will rule, and together you will walk under the sun and moon of our great Maker, He who watches this event and accepts it as law, holy and unbinding on this, the First Day of May, Year Thirty One of the Ninth Era, known as the Dragon Age." The Grand Cleric smiled at both the bride and groom in turn. "Do you so swear, that standing upon this altar today, that there is none other in your heart or mind than each other?"

Alistair swallowed nervously, brown eyes locking onto Gwyneth's. He nodded. "I, King Alistair Theirin, do so swear that in my heart and mind there is none other than she who stands upon this altar with me, Princess Gwyneth Cousland."

There was a pause before the princess spoke. It extended until the cleric cleared her throat, and Isolde began to fidget. "It's _your_ turn, dear." The ancient cleric whispered, trying to sound kind.

"Gwyn?" Alistair's voice was barely audible, but the princess could hear it.

"I . . . I . . . " She tried and stopped, tongue darting out to lick her lips, gone dry with her throat. "I . . . "

There was whispering out amongst the populated benches. In her mind she could hear herself, her brother, Wynne and lastly Isolde. '_You can do anything_.' Her voice left her, and Alistair was staring at her, concerned and nervous.

The binding garland around their hands felt like it was cutting off her circulation and she wanted to tear it off. '_Run. Go, get away, escape, flee_!' Her inner voice clamored for freedom from that arrangement. In that last moment she _had_ to say nay, to leave all of it.

Images flashed in her mind's eye, of Morrigan and herself, talking nonsense about traveling all of Ferelden and beyond, doing what she wanted. She could see Leliana and Alistair holding hands as they walked through the breathtaking vista offered at the markets of Orzammar, nothing so grand as their love for one another. Lastly she remembered the day Teyrn Loghain MacTir was executed.

_"Are you with me Gwyn?" Alistair's voice was lowered, and for a moment of weakness he was looking to her as he had since Ostagar. Looking to her to be the final voice. Gwyneth gripped his arm in one hand, and nodded. "I have _always_ been with you."_

Tears started to prick at the corners of her eyes, and she gripped Alistair's hands so tightly it must've hurt. Looking up at him, those brown irises filled with concern, she forced a smile, finding her voice. "I, Princess Gwyneth Cousland, do so swear that in my heart and mind there is none other than he who stands upon this altar with me, King Alistair Theirin."

There was an almost collective sigh of relief, and the Grand Cleric cleared her throat to continue. "To seal this covenant, may we hear your vows to each other and the nation of Ferelden?"

Both bride and groom nodded, Alistair going first.

"I swear to be your sword, to lead the charge against enemies that would threaten the sanctity of this land and the vows I take with my bride today. Forever shall I be your champion, a sentinel amongst the raging seas of chaos."

Gwyneth smiled, neck straight and taut. "I swear to be your shield, to defend this land and the vows I take with my groom today, from any that would attack it. Forever shall I be your guide, a light in the deepest shadows."

Arl Eamon walked forward to open the box, revealing two golden bands, simple and perfect. The Grand Cleric took one in each hand as Bann Teagan removed the binding garland. As Gwyneth and Alistair turned to face the cleric and the Maker's sun cross above them, their left hands extended out flat.

"It is with my holy position as Grand Cleric of the Maker, and a citizen of the great nation of Ferelden, that I do pronounce you as husband and wife." The matching golden bands went onto the ring finger of their hands, and they clasped them together immediately, turning to face each other once more "Your Majesty, claim what is granted to you under the sight of the Maker, and kiss your bride."

Alistair imagined in most normal weddings that was the best part, but of his own wedding he felt like he was going to be sick. '_Wouldn't that be a memory? Throwing up on my new wife_.' He would've pretended it was Leliana instead, but not only did that make his heart-ache worse, it made him feel like the Maker might smite him on the spot for such disloyal thoughts, following so soon after his vows. Leliana had nice full lips, soft and pliable, and at least that much he couldn't purge from his mind. With a forced bravado he surged forward, moving only his face and captured Gwyneth's mouth.

Her lips were taught and stiff with the feeling of someone that _really_ didn't want to be kissed. Alistair pressed harder, not wanting the Grand Cleric to notice how hesitant his bride was, and finally Gwyneth relented, letting her mouth open to accept the kiss. He felt that shift and it surprised him, how soft her lips were, how sweet the gloss on them tasted. When he pulled back he heard cheering in his ears, making the whole thing feel like he was dreaming.

"Upon this most joyous day do we take into our heart, Gwyneth of the crest of Cousland, now to be of the crest of Theirin. Our queen sovereign, holy and royal consort to Alistair of the crest of Theirin, King of Ferelden."

Isolde stepped forward, removing the veil from the pillow, to reveal Gwyneth's crown, a daintier version of the simple dark gold headpiece Alistair had. Gwyneth had some effort kneeling down in her full skirts, but she managed and as the Grand Cleric took the crown and placed it upon her head, she could feel her nerves jumping madly under the skin of her face.

"Rise now, Queen Gwyneth Theirin!" At the cleric's proclamation the crowd soon drowned her out.

Gwyneth almost jumped from the unexpected cries of excitement from the nobles and servants out there beyond the dais. "Maker save King Alistair, Maker save Queen Gwyneth!"

Alistair took up a ceremonial sword, passed to him by Arl Eamon, and with one hand clasping Gwyneth's, the other was free to raise the sword high as they both turned to face the people. The music returned, a chorus of voices from the sisters of the chantry joining in with angelic harmony to the triumphant song of the instruments.

Beyond him, the glittering sea and blue sky set a backdrop to an event that would be remembered for ages. A grand new beginning. He only hoped that history would remember them _well_.


	10. Chapter 10: Gilded Cage

**Disclaimer:** _"Dragon Age: Origins" and all its expansions and additional content is the property of Bioware and EA Games. Large portions of written content within the game, as well as Dragon's Age: The Stolen Throne, and Dragon's Age: Calling, are the creation of David Gaider. Original scenarios and characters are used under the creative license of the writer, ItalianEmpress1985. No profit is being made and the following story is for entertainment purposes only_

**Words From The Author: **_Every noble title comes with a female version, Teyrn/Teyrna, Arl/Arlessa etc. Except Bann, so I figured the closest thing in English, is Baron/Baroness, so I've given the females the title of Banness. Not really necessary I suppose, but I'm a lady and I like us ladies to have some distinction from male titles, I already have to make do with 'Ser' So there. :p_

_Thank you for stopping in. Watch out for low flying dragons!_

* * *

_**Chapter Ten:**_

_**Gilded Cage**_

* * *

**B**ack in the dull warmth of the palace, Gwyneth settled into her new place, a hand reaching numbly across a small distance to take her husband's dry fingers in a half-hearted embrace. Thinking of him as her actual _husband_ was beyond strange, but she ignored that feeling as another nobleman began his personal speech of congratulations. A false smile was beginning to pain the muscles in her cheeks, but there it stayed, brilliant in its fraudulence.

Seated at a long banquet table, there was little hunger in her gut, just a twitching discomfort. The steady wedding march back to the royal palace left her with plenty of time to think. All those thoughts festering in a mind overflowing, just like the goblets of wine being passed about. Even the admiring gazes sent her way did nothing to absolve the feeling of being caged. It was something Gwyneth wasn't used to.

As a teyrn's daughter, she'd had every advantage and she'd reveled in her superiority. When she lost her family, and was left with little more than a conscripted role as a Grey Warden, there'd been anger and frustration. That wasn't how things should've been, afterall, and the wrongness of her lot in life had never abated, until now, when she'd finally found her way back to a position more suited to the destiny she'd thought was to be hers.

Gwyneth was suppose to remain a noblewoman, marry well and live as she always had. Happy to be envied, admired and have power of position. Life as a Grey Warden had been both a blessing and a curse. It had forced her to travel through muck, ice, wind and rain, the onus of being a member of a once admired association, left to fear and doubts risen to heights beyond imagining from Loghain's poisonous words. Pelted not only with the weather, but a future of the unknown, yet somehow, for all that, she'd found a freedom in it. Power presented at the sharp ends of the Thorns of Dead Gods, her finely made short swords.

Inside there was still much of that spoiled, conceited lady, but so too did her changes mark her. To be queen was thrilling, if not for the cost of that position, and Gwyneth didn't miss that more military lifestyle she'd had to endure while traveling. She was quite comfortable in the gowns of her true self, and yet, it was disquieting to realize that she missed part of that brief freedom to be had on the road.

During the royal waltz it was a good thing that Alistair had learned the steps to perfection, because Gwyneth didn't even have the heart to give him pointers. She felt like a marionette from Orlais, held at arms length from the king, spun and twirled about like a well favored thing. The lights from the candelabras in the grand ballroom passed her by in a dizzying flurry of hot colors. Finally, it was over, and that time the king didn't dip her dramatically over one arm as he had done cheekily during practice.

Perhaps he too didn't have his heart in it. _His_ heart was on the road with Leliana, wherever she was. Gwyneth's was caged behind her ribs, where she kept it safe.

As the new queen caught Arl Eamon's eyes in the press of people, she almost hated the man, but it wasn't he alone that set up her marriage. She had been complicit, but she was beginning to think she'd made the wrong decision.

The queen allowed herself the hidden luxury of imagining what life would have been like if she'd never known anything beyond her noble life, if there was no such thing as darkspawn. If it was Cailan she was dancing with, Cailan with whom she had said her vows. A second wife, and a second queen, her reign set during days with no Blight.

She didn't know if she was in love with Cailan, but she might have been if given time. That kiss at Ostagar had filled her with more emotion than she'd known for any man, not that Gwyneth put much stock in some ridiculous magical kiss of 'true love' At least _that_ king wouldn't have resented Gwyneth's presence at his arm, because while she loved Cailan as a friend, she was more than positive he had loved her as his lady. Despite the useless emotion that was romantic love, there did still existromance, even for those souls who were most unwilling to embrace it.

_'Would I be happy today, if my groom was exchanged for another?'_

The thought died with the tug to Gwyneth's elbow.

"There you are, come with me." Isolde had her arm, and was steering the young woman towards an unoccupied antechamber. There certainly were enough of them in the palace. Alone, the arlessa still lowered her voice to barely above a whisper. "I am concerned as to what you may know about consummating your vows."

Gwyneth almost choked, and was glad for the fact she'd already swallowed the wine in her mouth. "What?!"

"Your mother likely would've told you about this, were she here, and I'm not sure you are prepared. You are a . . . maiden, yes?" Those light green eyes peered at Gwyneth as if they could discern such a thing by looking through the girl.

Gwyneth shifted uncomfortably, feeling her face get warm and knowing she must look awfully pink in the cheeks. "Really, Arlessa Guerrein, this is hardly necessary. I _am_ a maiden, but I'm not completely unknowledgeable."

"I see. Then you know about the bleeding?"

"Sorry?"

The red-gold of Isolde's hair caught the candlelight from the sconces set onto the wall, as she twirled a finger around an errant lock of hair nervously. "There is bleeding the first time a maiden lays with a man."

"Just from laying there, is it?" A smirk was set on the queen's full mouth, but at Isolde's look of exasperation, she sobered.

"No, of course not just from laying there! When a man's . . . sword, is sheathed in your . . . scabbard, and it is for the first time, there will be some tearing and bleeding. It will hurt at first, but that passes if you do not concentrate on it."

The queen had to bite down on her lower lip to keep from laughing, half at the ridiculous analogies, and half in embarrassment. Then it occurred to her that she really _didn't_ know about the bleeding. "There . . . There, is _always_ blood? How much?"

Isolde took the girl's words for fear. "Don't worry, it will be over soon. However, you must change the sheets. One shouldn't like to lay in that mess. Come morning you must also make sure the maids hang the sheets out before they are washed, so any nobles still here can see proof that their queen is a maiden no longer."

Gwyneth's face must have shown her distress, the normally rosy ivory looking more a sickly sallow shade. "Why on Thedas would anyone need _proof_? It's none of their business!"

The arlessa smiled in sympathy. She knew that anxiety all too well, and the barbaric practice of hanging the 'maiden's sheets' outside for all and sundry. "Since the days of Andraste, it has ever been upon us women to suffer the most. Men, they get the easy end of things don't they? No pain at all when they have their first intimacy, no monthly courses, no corsets and no childbirth for them."

Gwyneth leaned back into the wall, shocked. She had plans to simply behave as if she had engaged in intercourse with her husband, come the next morning and had assumed that would be 'proof' enough. '_Now there needed to be blood as well? Maker! What next?!_'

"I do have some herbs, I brought them with me just incase. They will increase the potency of your own sensitivity, so you can get some enjoyment out of this evening." Isolde pulled a small pouch from where it had been hidden beneath her sash.

The queen groaned, a headache feeling imminent. '_Where was she going to get blood from at this late hour_?'

* * *

"So . . . ah, there's the chamber pot over there. They put a screen around it and everything. Oh! And over here . . ."

"Alistair . . ."

"Yes?"

"I wasn't expecting a tour. It _is_ just a bedchamber, I've been in my own enough that I think I can figure out the basics of _yours_."

"Right, yes, yes of course you can." A nervous twitter of laughter, and the king began pacing back and fourth, trying to think of what to say next.

The two of them stood in the king's bedchamber, after their wedding, known as the _royal _bedchamber. No more would Gwyneth have her own room. There had been queens in the past that did, but certainly not so soon after their wedding, and furthermore Gwyneth was determined to at least maintain the _illusion_ of a happy union. It would do the people good to see a united pair of sovereigns after the dysfunction of their more recent predecessors.

Just like the grand ballroom, Gwyneth could feel Cailan's presence there. It hurt to think that he would be forgotten, but _she _never would, she would make sure his dreams and his vision of Ferelden found some reality during she and Alistair's reign.

Her eyes found the wide bed and she smiled absently, running a hand across the brocaded cover. Behind her skull she saw the late king, having nodded off as the two of them lay on the grass of the Coastlands, Highever behind them and the Waking Sea stretching beyond the hills.

_A blanket of stars covered the two friends, for that moment not Lady Cousland or King Theirin, just two humans enjoying a night of freedom. When Cailan was asleep he looked for all the world like a saint, fair hair making a halo around that pale face, at peace more than he ever could be while awake._

"So . . . left or right side?" Alistair was watching her and she turned from her musings to shrug at him.

"It doesn't really matter, whichever you prefer."

_It was funny that anyone had a care for Alistair's preference, since it was his preference that he not do this at all_.

Gwyn had told him the day of his coronation that there wasn't an expectation for intimacy. Which was a relief, or it should have been, but he was so nervous it did little to allay the feelings of betrayal he held for laying with another woman. The king might've slept on the floor but he knew Gwyneth would object so strenuously that the only way to settle her down was to do as she asked. Still, the last woman he had slept with was Leliana, and that had been a very different relationship.

* * *

The new queen had taken to investigating the shelves of books in the room, and the king took the opportunity to dash behind the screen to get out of his wedding vestments. He was lucky they were simple enough to remove. As he grabbed for the loose shirt and sleeping breeches his mind ran through the 'advice' he'd been given that night. Mostly from Arl Eamon and Bann Teagan, but there had been other nobleman that sought to give the king a pointer or two concerning his wedding night. Alistair could see Gwyneth's shadow past the screen, and swallowed. He was lucky she couldn't read his mind.

A sharp knock came at the door, and Alistair stood up straight, straining to listen to the murmuring voices, both female.

"Thank you, Siofra." With that, the door was closed. "Aren't you done yet?" Gwyn's voice drifted over to him, sounding perturbed.

"Yes." With a nervous grin he walked out from behind the screen to find his wife taking off her jewelry to set it in a small bowl on the bedside table. The candlelight made her face look eerie from that distance. "So, umm, you aren't going to sleep in your wedding gown are you? I mean, you can, if you really want to, I just think it'd be uncomfortable."

Silver eyes leveled at him as if he was the most ridiculous man on the face of Thedas. "I was waiting for _you_."

_This is the first moment they have alone as husband and wife, all the pretense fallen away to the same vinegary disposition Gwyneth had always had. No change there_.

He moved out of the way, awkwardly switching places with Gwyn as she went behind the screen. The wide bed mocked him, laughing at the fact that someone with his experience was feeling like a nervous virgin all over again, and even worse, towards a woman that didn't even want him, and that he didn't want either. With a low growl of frustration he clomped his way over and flung the blankets back, settling down under the sheets, and pretending that he was comfortable.

He wasn't.

A metal jug and what appeared to be fresh sheets had been set on the desk by the thick wooden door. Alistair raised a brow at the new items.

"Alistair . . ."

He turned at Gwyneth's words, noting the nervousness in it. _'Hah! So she isn't so calm as she's pretending!'_ "Yes?" There was some teasing giddiness in his voice, pleased that he wasn't alone in his discomfort.

"I . . . I'm afraid I'm going to require your assistance."

"With what?"

"With my gown. It took myself and two other women to get me into it and I can't get at all these Maker-damned clasps back here!" She was frustrated, evidenced in the higher pitch of her voice.

Alistair snorted in amusement that she'd personally _choose_ a gown that she couldn't get out of on her own, but that humor was short lived when he realized what she was asking him. His throat went dry as he cautiously got back out of bed. "Ahh, w-why didn't your maid servants help you?" It seemed a reasonable question.

"I imagine they assumed _you_ were going to take it off."

"That's just silly! Why would . . . Oh."

'_Did _everyone_ in the palace think he was going to get laid tonight? How was he going to face anybody at the breakfast table in the morning?'_

"Well?"

Gwyneth sounded more impatient and Alistair shuffled dutifully behind the screen, just avoiding the desire to close his eyes. He always had difficulty even getting Leliana's armor off, and that had simpler clasps than the menagerie of fancy hooks, eyelets and ribbons that faced him from the back of Gwyneth's gown. It was far easier to face that challenge with both eyes open, despite his immense discomfort.

"Un-hook the one near the top there, then it should open and you can get the laces."

'_Easier said than done_.'

Screwing his face up in concentration, his large hands tried to work the small fastenings. Gwyneth's back stiffened and he heard a strange intake of breath from her when his fingers accidentally touched the bare skin beneath the corset's boning. "What? I didn't hurt you did I?"

"No, it's just . . . your hands are cold."

"Sorry. What's this white thing underneath?"

"A slip. _That_ stays _on_." There was force behind that. The _'don't fuck with me and don't argue with me' _voice.

Alistair wasn't sure why she felt the need to press that point, it isn't like he was a lecher, drooling on himself to see her naked. "These come undone too?"

"The ties at the bottom? Yes."

He undid the sash around the waist where it'd been knotted through some strange looking clasps and Gwyneth sighed with relief.

"Oh thank you!" Her frame relaxed as she felt her ribs freed of the constriction of the corset-style gown. Holding the front of it up to her chest, she turned to smile at her assistant. "You are fair to decent at this." A smirk was hidden at the corners of her mouth.

"Yes, well . . . You're all set now?" Alistair was relieved when she nodded, and took no time getting back to bed, almost running there.

After a lot of rustling the gown was tossed up over the edge of the screen. "Can I borrow the robe back here?"

'_And be covered up? Why, yes by all means_.'

"Sure."

Gwyneth walked back out from the screen, her hair still done up and she immediately spotted Alistair under the blankets. His dark robe made her look shrunken under it but she had no less foreboding a look on her face. "Don't get too comfortable there, you have to get up. I have to put blood on the sheets."

Alistair stared at her blankly for a few second, before laughing at himself. "I'm sorry . . . I thought you said 'blood.'

"I did. Pig's blood to be exact. I sent my lady-in-waiting for it. She's a resourceful one, Siofra."

"Oh no! No more rituals!" Alistair got out of bed, not at her demands, but for his own panic.

Gwyneth rolled her eyes at him, arms folded across her chest in a manner that he'd come to recognize as vexation. "Really, must you be _such_ a blockhead? Don't you know what happens on a virgin woman's first night?" The queen left out the part where she didn't know everything about that _herself_, until Isolde told her.

It seemed that somehow Alistair was more knowledgeable than his new wife. "Oh . . . Yes . . . So, you weren't going to . . ." He gestured with his hands, unwilling to finish the sentence.

"Consummate this marriage with you? That'd be a _no_. I told you that already. Worried I changed my mind?" She smirked and walked over to the desk.

"Heh, no, no of course not!" His voice said that might have been _exactly_ what he was worried about.

Gwyneth went on to explain why the sheets had to be marked with pigs blood and then left out for people to see. To his credit, Alistair looked as uncomfortable with the whole mess as she did, but he helped mark the sheets anyway. Once they were discarded in a pile and fresh ones put on, he could finally collect his calm. To an outside party it would've seemed insane, to him it was one of the least crazy things he'd done.

Alistair looked almost accusing when he pointed at his wife, her hands moving to take off his robe. "Hey! I thought you were wearing my robe to bed?"

"Don't be ridiculous. It's far too bulky, I just didn't want to risk getting any blood on my slip. Red shows up on white a little _too_ well." Slipping it off, Gwyneth made an affair out of removing the pins from her head, to start the process of unraveling the ribbon and the braid. Finally she'd gotten her fingers into the loose strand, shaking it out so it fell down against her shoulders and back "Ahh, blessed Maker! You've no idea how much that braid was hurting my head."

The bed was wide enough that she didn't have to lay next to her new husband at all. Which was indeed a blessing. As she got under the blankets, the cold from the unused side of the bed seemed to sink through the flimsy ivory fabric of the slip and she gritted her teeth, knowing it'd be warm soon enough. "Candle out?"

"Yes."

"I do wish you'd relax." The new queen leaned over to blow out the wick of flame, as Alistair did the same on the other side.

"I _am_ relaxed." In the dark his voice sounded miles away.

"No you _aren't_. I can hear it when you speak. Look . . ." Gwyneth shuffled so she was up on one elbow. "We've slept closer than this in camp. Don't you remember the Kocari Wilds? I almost thought you imagined I was some stuffed doll, the way I woke up to you at my side like a child."

"You know, _you_ would've been overly cuddly too if you were afraid of some marsh witch casting a spell on you in the middle of the night, and turning you into a frog." He was defensive and fighting off a bad case of nerves.

Gwyneth laughed in the darkness, for once not goading him into getting angrier "You really did think that too, didn't you? Ah well, what I mean to say is that we're far enough apart on this bed. It's wide enough to sleep six people comfortably. There's no need to be nervous, and we'll both have to get used to this."

"You aren't going to keep your own quarters?"

"I thought I'd turn it into a study, but no, not a bedroom. Unless . . . Are you really _that_ uncomfortable having me here?"

There was a long period of silence, nothing but the distant murmur of servants voices out in the hallways.

"I . . . no? I don't know. It's nice to not be alone anymore."

Suddenly serious, Gwyneth's voice changed. "This shall not be a loving marriage, I know that, you know that . . . but I promise you that I will hold true to my vows. You won't be alone Alistair."

The severity behind her words made him want to fidget, but he knew deep down, that he would stay true to her as well. She didn't have his heart, but she'd have his respect. He nodded in the dark room, hearing every noise the bedding made as his new wife got situated. "Thank you, my queen." A small smile curled Alistair's lips.

"You're welcome, my king."

Alistair couldn't see it, but somehow he could hear her returning smile. Through the night he had several moments where he was startled awake by the thought of a female body in the bed with him, but Gwyneth's words of support eased him back into slumber.

* * *

"_Did you like my wedding gift?"_

_Gwyneth turned about, to find herself standing on the roof of Fort Drakon, but that couldn't be right, the tower's top floors collapsed soon after the final battle. She recalled being told that, and she'd seen the damage with her own eyes. "What . . ."_

_A brisk wind stole her voice, howling around the tower to join the poisonous red sky above, the clouds roiling._

"_After you gifted me with something so grand, how could I do anything other than return the favor?" The voice was ghostly, yet even amidst the howling wind, possessed a powerful tenor._

_The queen turned about, her white slip fluttering in the wind. _

_A man stiid before her and he reminded her very much of Morrigan, had Morrigan been born a male. The same black hair and golden eyes, the same look of superiority that the two women had shared. _

"_Who are you?"_

_The man sighed and walked forward, and suddenly he was nothing like Morrigan. Though the marsh witch always had a penchant for dark thoughts, never would Gwyneth call her evil. That man radiated a blackness of thought that swirled around him, permeating the almost glowing pallor of his skin._

"_My beautiful queen . . . do you truly not know? We were one for a moment, here on this roof, joined in spirit." He cocked his head, almost like a hawk inspecting its prey. The garments he wore were ragged and dark, no more than a blur in the madness of that dreamscape. "You never answered my question. Did you like my wedding gift?"_

"_Gift? I don't know what you're talking about." Gwyneth urged herself to wake up, backing away from the intruder. '_This _can'_t be reality.'

"_Why, Anora's head swinging from a noose." He smiled, with his golden eyes and his dark intentions. Taking a step closer he held Gwyneth's face in his hands. "You're welcome." That strange voice crooned, inhuman for its ethereal depth. "May I kiss the bride?" His mouth descended on hers, and in that maw of blackness, was a burning inferno._

Gwyneth bolted upright, the brocaded covers coming up with her, a hand to her throat as she stared ahead in the darkness. Panicked until her waking memory came back to her. The hand slid up to rub across her sweaty face and she turned to try and see Alistair in the bed beside her, but there was no moon outside and the room was black as pitch.

'_Just a nightmare, that's all_.'

It was a long time before she went back to sleep.


	11. Chapter 11: Shape of Things to Come

**Disclaimer:** _"Dragon Age: Origins" and all its expansions and additional content is the property of Bioware and EA Games. Large portions of written content within the game, as well as Dragon's Age: The Stolen Throne, and Dragon's Age: Calling, are the creation of David Gaider. Original scenarios and characters are used under the creative license of the writer, ItalianEmpress1985. No profit is being made and the following story is for entertainment purposes only_

**Words From The Author: **_So there's a bit more content with Fergus, and I've sort of expanded on both his thought process and the type of relationship he has with his sister. In the game we didn't see much of him, but given he was raised in the same environment, by the same parents as Gwyn it made sense to characterize him as at least somewhat similar in personality. He was too chipper in the game's epilogue, considering all that happened to him, so in this story I've tried to flesh him out, hopefully a bit better. The story is definitely still A/G focused, but the side characters are of importance as well, certainly._

_Thank you for stopping in. Watch out for low flying dragons!_

* * *

_**Chapter Eleven:**_

_**Shape of Things to Come**_

* * *

May 2'nd, 9:31 Dragon Age

**N**o one was in bed with the king when he woke, the opulent masculinity of the room left for him alone. His brown eyes were still bleary with sleep, but the first thing he looked for were the sheets they'd left crumpled on the floor. They were gone, along with the woman that helped to bloody them. Alistair shook his head, in exasperatied humor at the crazy tenacity of the Grey Warden that was now queen.

He got up, the previous night's spirits attacking him with the aftertaste of the slow throbbing headache they provided, and he moved with a groan of protestation. '_At least I wasn't _completely_ sotted_.'

The floorboards felt slightly damp and a faint chill was seeping in through a window that must not have been sealed tightly. After a visit to the chamber pot, Alistair rubbed his cold feet and hobbled his way behind the screen, beginning a search in the wide dresser for the neatly folded clothing that would make up his attire for the day. _What a change it is, to go from throwing on the same two outfits on the road, smelling of sweat, blood and toil, to 'this'._ Everyday with clean clothes and the likes of which would never be found on any stable boy. Finding what he was looking for, he pulled the soft cotton nightshirt off himself and over his head.

"You really should get another man servant. I know you and Degare did not get on well, but we can find you another. I don't much care for the idea of you having to dress yourself all the while, it isn't seemly for a king in his own palace. It's what servants are for." There was Gwyneth, already dressed, holding her head high with that look of utter superiority that seemed to be her weal.

"I don't mind really." He shrugged and turned his back on the queen, trying to not be bothered by the way she still talked about the servants, as if they weren't human beings beyond their duties. He used to be one of those people, there at Redcliffe Castle, running errands for anyone above him, and most were, or so he'd been led to believe at the time. The stables hadn't been so terrible, at least the stable master and the few other boys there didn't treat him like he had no value beyond 'Boy! Fetch _this_! Boy! Fetch _that_!"

A sigh of long suffering from Gwyn, and he could hear the length of her gown running across the lush carpet that covered sections of the floor. "At the very least let _me_ help you." Her hands reached for the fine linen shirt at the top of the pile. She raised it up to an inspecting eye before nodding with brief approval. "Turn 'round."

He did, but his mind sent a response to his tongue before he could stop it. "I wish you'd see the servants as _people_ instead of fixtures."

She stopped her movements, standing stock still beside him. When he dared to turn and look at her, she was unhappy in a big way, face transformed by her displeasure.

Gwyneth sighed. "Maybe you believe otherwise, but I see them Alistair, I _do_, but neither can I change what they are. _They_ are _servants_, _we_ are _nobility_. For all that I may have learned during my time as a Grey Warden, it does not change the ladder of classes, of which you and I are now on the top rung. It's the job of the palace servants to serve us, just as it is _our_ job to serve the people at large."

"A place for everyone and everyone in their place?" A bitter note lingered in the king's voice. "Last night you and I were suppose to be playing the roles we were given, and consummating a marriage, as we were told was our duty. We didn't, so what of _that_? The rules matter only for the servants?"

Gwyneth's back straightened in her indignation and she stepped in front of the king, her tone dropping to a dangerous level of acidic seduction that she'd used to her advantage in the past, though certainly never against _him_. "Is that what you wanted . . . _husband_?" Delicate fingers traced up his bared chest, left open with his shirt still unbuttoned. "Should we rectify that right now, our lack of consummation? There's time yet before breakfast."

"Gwyn . . ." Alistair's voice caught in his throat, and like a deer, he was trapped by a hunter better skilled at their game than he was. "No, I didn't mean . . ." Except the king's hunter was a virgin queen whose only own admitted experience was teasing poor bastards into insanity.

"Should I take my place as your wife? Maybe you wouldn't pick fights with me if your nerves were relaxed with a good tumble. Have you ever had a virgin?" It was a cruel question, she knew full well about the only woman he'd been with and the single night spent with another. There was pain in thinking about Morrigan, but Gwyneth was far too interested in getting the better of her new husband, and she watched with a feline smirk as he flinched.

Her brother had called her a tease, and he knew because he'd been the one to defend her from zealous suitors who'd she'd gotten all riled up and then dropped with a flick of her wrist. Gwyneth smiled, her prey standing still before her, frozen with his own apprehension. When she pressed herself against him, he retreated, his knees catching on the dresser as he fell back, the wood giving a squeak of protest as Alistair's weight pushed it against the wall tightly. The queen took the opportunity and slid one knee up the length of his inner thigh, the long gown catching at her hip and slipping upward to reveal the stocking-covered leg beneath.

Alistair groaned, the hardness beneath his breeches almost painful in the way the blood suddenly surged into it. He wanted to tell Gwyn to stop, he knew she was playing a prank on him, something mean to get even with him for daring to say something she didn't like.

He hadn't been with a woman since that not-quite-awful night with Morrigan, unable to touch Leliana after that without feeling guilty, and all that pent up desire was too much. So instead of saying anything, he only moaned. It didn't matter then who it was, only that she was an attractive woman, pressing against him, a leg sliding between his thighs and . . . '_Oh Maker_!' Against his bare chest he could feel the swollen weight of her ample breasts, hidden beneath the light blue and cream of her gown.

"I could even try and speak with an Orlesian accent, like your _precious_ Leliana." She smiled again, but it was wiped off her face when Alistair grabbed both of her wrists, shoving her back.

His face twisted in anger. "Just stop it!"

They stared at one another, eyes full of bitterness, before Alistair let go of her and stalked away from the screen. The thick door to the bedchamber was all but thrown open as he went into the hallway, oblivious or uncaring to the fact that his shirt was open and he didn't have any footwear.

Gwyn sagged into the displaced dresser, letting her face fall into an upturned palm. He hadn't said anything so awful, but it had set a tiny blaze in her and as usual her temper made her behave cruelly. Her nightmare of the previous evening was remembered, even if it would never be spoken of and those hidden fears added to her temperament, but it was no excuse. "What is it you think you're doing?" The queen asked of the empty room.

* * *

"Fool dog! Off with you!"

"Eh, now, best you watch yourself. Her Highness values the royal hound more than all of us put together."

"_Royal hound _my ass, he's a _filthy dog_ and I don't want him in the scullery!"

"_I_ think he's cute. You _are_ a cute boy, aren't you Noble?"

The chestnut colored mabari looked up at the cooing scullery maid, kneeling down to scratch between his ears just the way he liked. Noble whined happily, tongue lolling to one side.

Spring sunlight was chill but warming slowly as it came through the thin windows of the palace kitchens. Margaret smiled at the mabari and turned to look into the light, before wiping a white sleeve across her face. She stood, after giving Noble one last scratch, and went to wash her hands before Mistress Ayin groused at her.

The elderly cook was already making a stormy face at the aforementioned 'filthy dog' when Margaret snuck him some large crumbs of sweet pasty, left over from that morning's batch. It may not have been pork bits, but Noble clearly wasn't as fussy as the queen when it came to snacks.

"Get a start on them raspberry tortes or Her Highness will have our hides." Ayin smoldered from where she had already turned back to an oven, shaking her head in exasperation at Noble, apparently settling to just letting him sit there because there wasn't much else to do.

"Lady Siofra says the queen is a decent sort." Liza came out of a side pantry, arms full of two sacks of flour, her pale face even paler with the escaped white powder dotting it.

"_Lady _is it? Pfft! Givin' a title like that to some _elf_. Ridiculous." Ayin was in a foul temper, the tight bun of silver and black hair pulling tight on her rigid face. Not all of the cookery had been brought back from the private dock hillside, and as head cook she was working without everything she needed, but the demands would be no less. Already there were nobles in the dining hall outside the kitchens, she could hear their tinkling laughter floating in from the half opened doorways of the scullery.

"What is ridiculous?" The imperious voice could be mistaken for no other and Ayin whipped around, startled, and almost dropped the pan she was holding.

"Queen Gwyneth! Ah, g-good morning to you, Majesty."

"And to you Mistress Ayin, I trust breakfast will be ready soon." Gwyneth smiled lightly at the woman and her staff, reaching down to pet Noble's head. "How is my little baby this morning?" He whined happily and licked her outstretched palm, the red and gold of his collar catching the sunlight. "We shouldn't be in the kitchens though, should we Noble?" Another whine, less happy and the mabari vacated the room to wait for his mistress out in the hall.

As the queen took in the perturbed face of the head cook, she raised a brow. "Is there a problem?"

Margaret grinned a little too brightly, the queen's presence highly unexpected in the kitchens. _Unless she wants a special order and can't wait_. The maid almost groaned at the thought. "Oh no, Majesty, everything is perfect."

Liza ducked her head suspiciously, whistling low as she darted across the wide kitchen to deposit the flour sacks onto the row of hard-wood countertops.

Ayin glowered in Margaret's direction, setting her pot aside to pose rather grandly for the sovereign. "Actually, yes, Your Highness. We haven't everything we need in here. Them boys haven't brought back my cookery as they ought." The older woman huffed.

"I see. I shall make it a matter that your items are returned as soon as possible, though you must realize it took two days to get everything out to the hill. It will take longer than a single morning to get them back."

The cook didn't glare, but she wanted to. The onus on her and her women to keep breakfast coming on time wouldn't be any less because of the lack of cookery, she knew, and there wouldn't be an acceptable excuse if meals were late. _No leeway for them that work in the scullery_. "As Her Highness would say. Was there somethin' in particular you need, Majesty?"

"Yes, I wished to inquire if you can make some sweetened cheese tortes, as well as the raspberry you normally make for me." Gwyneth offered the kindest face she was able to produce with her current mood. If they were in Castle Cousland and Gwyneth was six months younger, it would've been a order, with no niceties at all.

"Trying something new, Majesty?" Liza smiled shyly, looking forward to the woman leaving. Lady Siofra might have said the queen was an alright sort, but it was still unnerving to have such a personage in the kitchens.

"No. They are for King Alistair."

* * *

Teyrn Fergus Cousland leaned back into the fine but simple wood backing of the chair, letting his mind drift from the inane chatter of the other nobles that had stayed on after the wedding and were joining him for breakfast. Sunlight came in through the windows, warming the chill of early spring morning out of the dining hall, and the friendly rays caressed his pale cheeks, lighting up the red in his hair, from a shade between rich mahogany and autumn leaves.

Behind his closed eyes, his mind worked tirelessly, anxious to retake his home. He had wasted no time in making Ser Gilmore into the Commander of Highever Company, and sent the young man off ahead of him to scout out the situation around Highever with a small but well trained retinue of the Knights of Denerim, on loan from the king. That afternoon, the teyrn himself was to leave Denerim with two more knights and those that he had convinced to assist him while in the city. After their departure from the capital, they would head north past the boundaries of the Amaranthine arling to a camp, where Gilmore would send men to meet him.

So far there had been nothing but general news from the official steward of the city of Amaranthine itself, Banness Esmerelle. The lady had been sending letters from the former Howe estate, though it hadn't seen use as such in at least two decades if not more. During the Orlesian occupation, a fortified keep closer to the holding's edge, named Vigil's Keep for its highly strategic position, had become the temporary home of the Howe family, and after the war it was _officially_ their homestead.

Currently a man named Varel was stationed there to keep an eye out for any collected darkspawn threat, made higher if the creatures somehow sensed the Wardens that were expected to arrive there in the next week or so. King Alistair had plans to re-instate Varel as _Lord_ Varel, Seneschal of Vigil's Keep, a title he hadn't held since the late Arl Rendon Howe had him banished from the arling for disloyalty. He'd been sending notices of some stray darkspawn activity but little in the way of larger more dangerous bands, at least so far, so Fergus wasn't worried about being attacked by an insurmountable force of the monsters so close to the borders of Amaranthine.

Teyrn Cousland remembered King Alistair's words about getting help from them. The teyrn would be passing near enough to some of the outlying villages, but his face held a glower at the thought, no more willing to entertain the idea than he had been when it was first suggested.

There was no one that could openly be trusted from Amaranthine and Fergus would be damned if he took damaged goods. His wife and son were dead because of such misplaced trust, and a part of the teyrn wanted to be angry at his father for believing in Arl Howe. Then again there had been a time that Thomas Howe and Fergus Cousland had visited brothels together, and it was Thomas that stood up and made the first speech at Fergus' wedding to Oriana. It was easy to see how his father had liked the arl as much as Fergus had liked Thomas.

No, there was no one to blame but Rendon Howe himself, and the lickspittles that knew what he was planning and did nothing. The soldiers that Fergus would see beheaded upon his reclamation of Highever, their skulls decorating pikes for anyone that had thoughts of further hostility against the teyrn.

"Highness!"

"Morning, Your Majesty!"

"Oh, you look lovely, My Queen."

The collected words of greeting, some sincere and others not nearly as much, stirred Fergus from his private contemplations and he sat up straighter in his chair, his sister visible from the corner of his vision. She took a seat at the end of the table as was customary, the chair at the head of the table left empty for the king, and empty it yet remained. The teyrn raised a brow at that.

Gwyneth nodded her head at the other nobles, Arl and Arlessa Guerrein amongst them, before she sat down, her brother seated to the right of her. He reached across the table corner that separated them and put a hand over her own, bringing her knuckles up to his mouth in a brief kiss as he let her hand fall where it laid.

"Good morning, little sister. Your evening went well?" Fergus' voice was loud enough to be picked up by the attentive nobles.

"Quite, yes." Gwyneth flashed the older Cousland a wide smile, turning to share it with the others. Only _he_ seemed to be able to see past it, offering her a small frown before his own face was in kind.

"Ah, good."

"Highness, is _His Majesty_ going to join us anytime soon?" Arl Eamon was studying the young queen, his blue-gray eyes querulous, careful to avoid a sensitive topic amongst mixed company. He'd heard the rumors that there had been a fight between the newlyweds and the king had been seen roaming the upper halls in a fury earlier that morning, and oddly without any boots.

Gwyneth cleared her throat, the false smile firmly in place. "I'm certain it is so, Arl Guerrein, though we had an evening of it and he is understandably tired." A salacious grin, and a chorus of laughter and snickering followed.

Nobles were dirtier in thoughts and words alike when bunched together in any sort of private meeting, despite their claims at being ever-so-proper. The queen knew that as well as any noble in that room and was more than willing to play into it, if it would remove the nauseating guilt that had begun squirming in her gut.

Her words had seemed on point to a degree, however, as the king finally made an appearance. He must have finished dressing on his own and he looked well put together, nodding a silent greeting for the nobles in the dining hall.

"Good morning, Highness, you slept well?" A coquettish smile from one of the younger daughters of Bann Ceorlic, both nicer to look at and more pleasing in personality than her father, a man that clearly disliked both new sovereigns. Being that his father had betrayed Queen Moira and nearly had Ferelden permanently shackled to Orlais, it was likely he would _always_ have a chip on his shoulder. Lady Ladalia didn't seem to have the same affliction. Large green doe eyes looked up at the king, entirely innocent, though her question had a hint of teasing behind it.

"Ah, yes, wonderfully." A slightly nervous grin as the new king took his seat, not anticipating the drawn out twitter of snickering glee from the collected nobility. Eyes turned back and forth between himself and the queen, and when Alistair looked in the direction of the evil teasing actress that was his wife, he found a pleased and humored grin on her face. He couldn't remember disliking someone so intensely as he did _her_, though he knew that of course he had. '_How dare she sit there so pleased with herself?! Not even an ounce of remorse!_'

Alistair couldn't say anything, his tongue too thick with anger and he didn't want to make it obvious to the small public gathered in the dining hall. When breakfast finally did arrive, the king was more than happy to take his time, keeping his mouth occupied, offering only brief nods or shrugs as responses to the chatter that enveloped him.

He bit into the pastries placed on a platter before him, eyes watching his wife with intensity that others might have mistaken for something other than animosity. There was surprise at the rich, sweet cheesy flavor that greeted his palate and he finally took notice of what he was consuming. "What _are_ these? They're _delicious_!" Alistair turned to his uncle Eamon, seated to his left.

"I'm not sure, I think Gwyneth ordered them for you." The arl lowered his voice before his attention was taken up by his wife.

"Cheese tortes, darling." A short smile from the woman herself, gaze unreadable before she was drawn back into conversation with her brother, their voices taking on a whispering quality.

He observed Gwyneth for a time, but her attention wasn't spared for him in the slightest and he went back to his breakfast. As the morning began to wane and the other nobles made their leave, Alistair felt his temper cooling, though he was no less hurt. His eyes followed the queen out of the room, too tired to let his feet follow as well. Eamon began speaking to him, but the king only listened with half an ear.

* * *

Servants darted down the halls carrying trays and linens, and Fergus wove around them as they offered quick apologies for being in the way. The long hall was lined with very uncomfortable looking stone benches, all unoccupied as the teyrn made his march down that long corridor, the thin windows letting in streaks of dusty light.

"Fergus! Do tell me you were not planning to leave _unannounced_! Why you have not even digested your breakfast!" Gwyneth had a grip on her skirts, clearing her feet so that her passage was quicker, as she all but ran to catch up with her elder brother. When he whipped around to face her, there was a quick placating smile that came to his façade, one that Gwyn knew only too well. _How many times had _she_ used a similar expression to cover her true intentions?_ "You _were_, weren't you? Why?"

"Gwyny-Gwyn, I thought it might have been easier on you. You do so hate awkward farewells and it seemed better to spare us both that, and besides, you and I both know that my reclamation of our home will be a success. We'll see each other very soon." Fergus' smile then was a tad more genuine.

Gwyneth pressed two fingers against the bridge of her nose. He was right, but she felt a strangling panic to see him leaving again. He was her own blood, and more than that, he was the first person she'd ever loved beyond herself, even before she understood what it was to love her parents. She had thought him dead, and there he was, alive and hale . . . and ready to leave her. "Fergus, you are all the family I have left in Ferelden, everyone else is abroad or gone from this world. You must _promise_ me you won't get yourself killed."

"Is that a royal order?" Fergus smirked.

"Yes." A returning smirk.

"Very well then, Your Majesty." The teyrn bowed cutely.

She knew her brother was anxious to get underway but Gwyneth was always one that had to speak her peace. "You know, your route might be taking you very close to the southern edge of the Feravel Plains. Surely Lord Eddelbrek would . . ."

"No! I can scarcely believe _you_ of all people are suggesting assistance from _Amaranthine_!"

"Fergus! I could hardly suggest _anything_ before you interrupted me! Lord Eddelbrek was a friend to our family and lent Highever many of his own farmers when we had that terrible drought in Nine-Twenty Eight. Do you not remember?" Gwyneth's quick anger at her brother simmered low and soft, her hand finding a place at his arm as he watched her, silver eyes into silver eyes. Their father's gaze still alive in them both.

"I remember, Gwyneth. I also remember that the man was a loyalist to Arl Rendon to the very last, and I remember that father loved Howe like a brother, and the man had him killed. So forgive me if I'm not willing to accept the aid of someone who was always on bended knee to our family's murderer." Fergus stared down at his sister, she was tall, but he was taller. "Gwyn, you've changed. Before, you cared not a whit for forgiveness."

"Look around us, brother. This isn't some idealistic life, sheltered from what the rest of the world is like. Harsh reality ruined my charmed existence. You think it's forgiveness I'm suggesting? It's common sense, Fergus. We can't shun _everyone _that's ever made us angry, or we would have no allies in all of Ferelden."

"You always were one for melodramatics. Good on you for your self-discovery and realization. Meanwhile, _I'll_ go and reclaim what's left of our legacy while you watch me from your pedestal of mock-altruism." The teyrn turned from his sister, to continue down the hall, but the woman had an iron grip on his forearm.

Gwyneth made sure she was quiet, glancing about her to make certain they were alone. "Fergus, please . . . life is about more than your need for revenge."

"Tell me, sister, did you come to such an epiphany _before_ or _after_ you took your vengeance on Arl Howe?" Fergus lowered his voice to a whisper, feeling Gwyneth's fingers loosen on his arm. She flinched and he felt like a lout for causing it, but he refused to back down and he knew what she was doing. Her new husband was getting to her, making her feel like she should change herself. "This isn't like you, Gwyn, not at all. You were _always_ a Cousland first."

"What are you _talking_ about? I still _am_!"

"No, since yesterday, you've been a _Theirin_." Another flinch from his sister and it was Fergus' turn to sigh. "Gwyneth, I don't know what you went through as a Grey Warden, I may _never_ be able to understand it all. Brother or no, I wouldn't expect you to divulge everything to me, but here's what I _do_ know. You can't forget what happened to our family. You were there, you _saw_ what Howe did. I wish I'd been there to stop his men, but you were there in my stead, but it doesn't make my loss any less than yours, and I need my sister with me on this. I need you to see that right now, it's too dangerous to trust people whose character isn't a true thing. _Especially_ anyone that was associated with the Howes, not until we've retaken Highever at the very least."

Gwyneth nodded slowly, a sad smile pulling at her lips as she leaned forward to give her brother a kiss on the cheek. "Then go, Fergus."

He nodded back, the same melancholic smile reflected at his sibling. "Tell the king I'm sorry I could not stay longer, but time is of the essence and I've been here too long."

"What do I tell _myself_?" There was a telltale glimmer of clear liquid at the corner of her eyes and she wasn't sure if it was anger, frustration or fear for her brother that brought the stinging tears on.

Fergus hugged her to his chest in that last moment, the quiet of the hallway enveloping them both. "That I love you, and I'm going to make Highever as grand as you remembered, as we _both_ remembered. That I'm a Cousland, and I can do anything."

* * *

The last of the visiting nobles left the palace. Even Arl Eamon went to his own estate in the city, with his wife, saying only that the newlyweds needed time to themselves. Wynne remained, but seemed to be of like mind and made herself scarce that evening.

It gave Gwyneth far too much time to contemplate inventive ways to avoid the king. The last she'd seen him had been on the stairs of the royal palace, waving at the retreating carriage that transported Eamon and Isolde away. There the pair of them had been close, only as long as was needed for public viewing, before taking their leave with nary a word.

As night drew in, there was no more avoiding to be done. Siofra sensed her mistress' mood and was want to fret about the queen. The elfess made a wonderful lady-in-waiting, and Gwyneth felt compelled to ask Siofra how she could be so agreeable with humans. Certainly now that she was more aware of their living conditions in the alienage, of which Siofra had been born in. But that would be another time, that night her discussion would find most of its bulk in the royal bedchamber, with Alistair.

The queen dismissed Siofra, as she drew up to the thick dark wood of the door that opened into what was now her quarters, shared with a new husband. She was reminded of the morning she and Alistair had decided to go through with Arl Eamon's matchmaking, and she was nearly just as tentative as she had been then. More out of fear for catching him unawares and spoiling a mood that would probably be foul already.

"Come in." His voice had a power behind it that he was likely not even aware of and outside in the hall, the young queen couldn't help but smile.

"Hello." Her own voice carried softly into the room as she closed the door, locking it behind her and leaning into the wood for support. Gwyneth was strangely past caring if Alistair noticed that she was less than put together.

A small fire was going in the private hearth afforded to them, warding off a chill that seemed to be unwilling to admit that it was now May. Alistair was standing by it, both hands on the mantle and looking for all the world like the weight of the Fade and its multi-verses were stood upon his broad shoulders. "Finally got tired, did you?" There was no greeting in his tone, and little emotion. He didn't even turn to look at her. Gwyneth's voice was unmistakable and he needn't see her to identify her.

"Yes. It's been a long day." She almost created a false smile, but there seemed little point and she let the frown come when it wanted to. "Fergus should be well on his way northwards by now. He told me to offer his apologies to you, for not staying longer, but he was pressed for time."

Alistair nodded, eyes shut against the warm heat that caressed his face, the crackling embers filling the awkward silence between himself and his 'wife'. The king rolled that title around in his mind, all the meanings it should and could have not applying to the maddening red-head standing somewhere in the bedchamber behind him. "Is this where you tell me I was wrong to suggest finding aid for him from Amaranthine?" He'd been waiting for her rebuttal, while Gwyneth compiled what would most likely be a harsh lecture, but if she meant to further harass him, he was currently too gutted to care.

"What? No I . . . I think maybe you were right." Her hands knotted together, pressing against the cloth covered corset binding her ribs.

The king was so surprised by that, he finally turned to look at her, dark blond brows furrowed, expecting the usual self-important set to her features. Instead she almost looked afraid or sad.

"Fergus didn't want to hear that of course and, well, he _is_ my brother so I agreed with him at the end of it, but in time I think perhaps that will change." Gwyneth took a deep breath, gaining some composure as her slippered feet made their way across the room. Alistair had returned to his fireside contemplation, his back facing her, and when she touched his shoulder with a gentle hand he almost jumped. She could feel his corded muscles stiffen beneath the white cotton that made up his shirt. "I'm sorry."

Despite the fact that her voice was riddled with an almost heart-breaking sincerity, Alistair feared it was just another act. Last night she'd been there, his friend, his sister at arms, to tell him he'd never be alone, and that morning she was back to the conniving vixen he'd thought her to be in the early days of their association . . . and it hurt.

It hurt to realize that for all the times that Gwyneth had seemingly been there for him, that she could turn on him just as easily. The king's own voice was a testament to that hurt, and grew cold and nearly unfeeling. "Oh? And what exactly is it you're sorry for?"

Gwyneth flinched, drawing her hand back. "Please, don't make this harder on me than it already is."

That made him snap and when he whirled on her, the fire in the hearth was a poor match to that all consuming anger, turning rich brown eyes into burning embers. "_Hard_ on you? Hard on _you_?! How in the hell do you think _I_ feel, to imagine I'm going to spend the rest of my life with you, with a woman that feels she can do whatever she likes, to whomever she likes and then strut around as if it's all perfectly acceptable? Why did you do that to me this morning, Gwyn? How could you just talk to me like that, _me_ of all people?!" Alistair hands were in his hair, as if he wanted to tear it out in frustration.

"I . . . I d-don't know! I . . ." The queen was on the verge of tears, looking equally as frustrated and disheartened.

"What is it you don't know? Why you seem to able to change your moods so quickly? Why you have more ups and downs than the Hinterland Hills? Yeah, _I_ don't know that either." His anger stayed there, making him feel tired and weighted. "You drive me _insane_! One moment you're a decent friend, but the next you are some vicious harpy, and the transition between those personalities is _so_ short that I can't figure out which one is the act and which one is the real you."

"Both? Neither? I'm not entirely sure." She offered him a short-lived grin, forced and very unaccepted from the glower still on his face. Her shoulders sagged and she wanted to turn away and pace there, thinking of what he wanted to hear, but it was better if she just bore her words plain. Knowing that, the queen squared herself up, every bit of her sincerity raw and open for him to see, no longer hiding it away behind sharp wit and a superiority complex. "This morning I was . . . I was just angry with you, that you'd bring up our consummation like that, comparing it to understanding the importance of servants. A consummation neither of us are interested in, but you were hanging it over my head anyway."

Alistair felt the tenseness of his body easing away and he watched his new wife warily, but also with surprise. He hadn't expected honesty from her, if that was what that was, but it didn't excuse the cruelty with which Gwyneth had tried to exact revenge on him. So he stood there, in silence, waiting for her to speak her peace.

"Ever since I was old enough to start flirting, I seemed to have an unusual amount of talent at it and it became a weapon. So it came to me all at once that you wouldn't expect that, not from _me_, and it gave me the advantage against you and I took it. What I said, about . . . about Leliana, I had not planned that, but then it was there in my mind and I knew it would hurt you. That's why I said it, because that's what I wanted, because _you_ hurt _me_. I know that I over-reacted, badly it seems, but I can't take it back. I can only apologize." Gwyneth watched her companion cautiously, to see how that confession was weighed.

There was a drawn out pause before Alistair spoke. "It's not so unusual, you know, your success with flirting. You are the kind of woman that people look _thrice_ at. So of course they're going to respond favorably when they think they've caught your eye."

"_You_ didn't, respond favorably that is. In fact, I cannot think of _any_ time during our association and the friendship that followed, where you _ever_ were attracted to me." She shrugged. "I guess you're just immune to my charms."

"I wasn't very immune _this_ morning." He rubbed the back of his collar, neither of them moved much from their previous positions before the hearth, and his backside was growing warm.

"What?" Her face registered her shock.

Alistair cleared his throat, uncomfortable but wanting to tell the truth. "As I said, you're a beautiful woman, and I'm neither blind, dead or attracted to men."

"Well that's a relief, especially that second one there. I'm not interested in necrophilia." More than a little unsettled, she resorted to an attempt at finding humor somewhere in his words, and took a few steps back, towards the safety of the screen.

"You're _blushing_!" The realization came with some glee, because for once _he_ had the advantage.

"No, I'm not."

"You _are_!"

"Fine, maybe I am, but could you try to sound a little less _thrilled_ about it? I'm embarrassed enough already." Gwyneth retreated behind the tall wooden screen that separated her from the gaze of the grinning king by the hearth. "I really do feel terrible."

Alistair grinned, suddenly very pleased with his brief leverage. "Oh, I don't know, I thought you felt _very nice_, especially near the top of your corset."

Gwyneth made a strangled noise of pure mortification. She couldn't believe he just said that, but she could barely hear her reply over the noise of his sudden laughter. "I'm ecstatic that you're enjoying this so much." Her words came dryly.

"It's nice to have the shoe on the other foot." Sobering himself, he watched her shadow move behind the screen. "I . . . I forgive you Gwyn, but you have to promise me something."

"What's that?"

"_Never _do that to me again, I'm just a man, and I have less control then you might think."

She let his words sink in, nodding her head even though he couldn't see her. As her nightgown came over her head, she responded, coming out from behind the screen. "Believe me, I'd rather not tempt fate." In all honesty, Gwyneth was entirely too grateful that she had his forgiveness and that Alistair was willing to poke fun at her. It was a comfort, their well-intentioned banter.

"The cheese tortes were a good start." He grinned at her, and was pleasantly surprised when she sent him a genuine smile in return.

"Liked them did you? I'm glad." A tug on the brocaded covers and Gwyneth had them pulled back to slide under them, the length of the linen nightgown cozy against her legs, and much preferred to the flimsy slip of last evening.

"I never knew there was such a thing." The king took his own turn behind the screen, beginning to find some ease at changing his clothes with so much frequency.

Gwyneth shrugged her shoulders against the pillows. "Well, we learn something new every day."

Alistair finished getting into his sleeping breeches, the night tunic loose against his frame, and comfortably so. His eyes found his wife already cuddled up under the blankets, dark red hair loose to frame her face as she watched him in turn, a small and shy smile still prevalent, after her embarrassment of only moments ago. She reached a hand out from the edge of the covers to pat the mattress next to her and he nodded. "Yes, I guess we do."


	12. Chapter 12: Ferelden's Need

**Disclaimer:** _"Dragon Age: Origins" and all its expansions and additional content is the property of Bioware and EA Games. Large portions of written content within the game, as well as Dragon's Age: The Stolen Throne, and Dragon's Age: Calling, are the creation of David Gaider. Original scenarios and characters are used under the creative license of the writer, ItalianEmpress1985. No profit is being made and the following story is for entertainment purposes only_

**Words From The Author: **_This has to be said. Oddly enough the two characters that carry this story, Gwyneth and Alistair are my least favorite origin and my least favorite romance. :p However I do 'like' the Female Noble origin and I do 'like' Alistair as a character, just not as a romance :p So saying I wanted a noblewoman that felt more true to what that kind of character would be like in life, with the way they are presented in the game. With that, there are things about her that probably will never win her any awards for Miss Congeniality :p _

_It's nice though, for me at least, that there are readers out there that can still take some enjoyment from a character that isn't all that sunny of dispostion. There is a lot of grey area in both Gwyneth and Alistair's personalities (he can be a bit whining and quick to temper under certain circumstances), or at least that's how I see them, and it's actually pretty fun to write them with all their inherent flaws. I connect with them better as living people that way and so the chapter updates come quicker than other stories I've written in the past. ;)_

_Anyway, I wanted to thank all those that are enjoying this kind of tale, and these kinds of characters. You are my readers and this one's for you. _

_I'm thinking that the Landsmeet couldn't possibly be the only arena in which Ferelden's nobles get together and discuss things. More like the Landsmeet is for major issues that require a quick and voted upon answer. So you'll see in this chapter an example of a smaller and less monumental meeting, though still important in its own respects._

_Thank you for stopping in. Watch out for low flying dragons!_

* * *

_**Chapter Twelve:**_

_**Ferelden's Need**_

* * *

May 10'th, 9:31 Dragon Age

**T**he air in the council chamber feels stifling with the press of the noblemen seated at the table. These three men were at the royal wedding but now their demeanor seems far changed from the joviality of that day and the one that followed.

With only a few nobles gathered here, it is what one might call an intimate meeting of king and country, but even that has its own burdens. The council is began with the usual noble posturing, wishing each other well and all other manner of rot, then it's on to the 'fun' material.

Bann Ceorlic is particularly acidic, grounding out what he deems a matter of the highest importance. Placement of heirs to take on the fallen houses of Ferelden, Gwaren with its lack of teyrn chief among them. Arl Eamon narrows his eyes at the man, knowing full well that Ceorlic wouldn't mind having such a title for himself but there are no accusations openly thrown, not in the council chamber, only veiled insults that are returned just as cleverly.

Gwyneth clears her throat, rising from the oval shaped table, the ends like the sharp points of teardrops. All grace when she moves, drawing attention as the only woman in the room. She can see the displeasure at that, '_highly irregular'_ the looks say. There have been moments in history where women led alone, without the guidance of a man, but moments do not regularity make and the queen knows that . . . and frankly doesn't care. Hers will be a joint ruling, in all the ways that matter, so when she speaks during a council meeting, her voice is one that demands respect and listening ears.

"We understand the need to supplement the noble houses of Ferelden, especially in days of such uncertainty." The 'we' encompasses herself and her king. "With that said, it must also be brought up that we cannot move forward on these matters until we are certain of the future safety of the people. We do not yet know of the enormity or lack there of, concerning the darkspawn threat that yet remains in our country. Arl Bryland, I believe South Reach has had word upon such points of interest?" The queen spread her hands out, a gesture for the man himself to speak, as she once again took her seat beside the king.

Arl Alexander Bryland smiled at Queen Theirin before standing, and there is affection there. The arling of South Reach has long been allied with the teyrnir of Highever. Alexander's father, Leonas, fought beside Teyrn Bryce Cousland to help secure Ferelden from the Orlesians and it was with a note of personal pride that he spoke to his queen. "As is well known, South Reach sits just north of the line separating the Brecilian Forest from the Southron Hills, and my scouts have reported smaller bands of darkspawn moving through the woodlands, not enough, they say, to cause some of the problems heard about farther south. It is believed, though not confirmed, that several of these roving bands are coming out of the ruins of Ostagar. Lord Lothian has returned from his survey of the area, his men encountered heavy losses along the old Imperial Highway headed towards Lothering." Having been raised in the northern nation of Tevinter, though born of and returned to Ferelden, the arl spoke with a distinct Tevalian accent.

"And the rebuilding efforts there?" Alistair leaned forward, anxious for that news, his mind filled with images of scared men and women, children huddling around parents. It had been a desperate village then, and when he'd heard it was destroyed a part of his heart had grieved for all of them, for everyone lost.

"Without the rule of their bann, it is only Lord Lothian that is able to supervise such efforts. The village was named after his family, I can't recall the history at this time, but he certainly has his heart in it, Sire. He was one of mine, and if he says it's so, I believe him. He ordered the construction and clearing of debris to be paused, it's too dangerous to have any laborers there that don't know how to fight." Alexander dipped his red-gold head in a show of respect for the new king.

Alistair nodded, his thoughts churning within his skull, even as the talking buzzed around him.

Arl Eamon's voice rose in a manner customary of one used to being heard. "We need to send knights to Ostagar. If there's a source for the darkspawn there, it needs to be eliminated. The only way to kill off an ant infestation is to locate the nest and destroy it."

"By what is this decree made, _steward_?" Bann Ceorlic turned his bald pate in the arl's direction, nearly black eyes thinning into slits towards the older man. "On the rumors of scared peasants and common soldiers who think any darkspawn they see is the next Blight?"

Gwyneth watched Arl Eamon closely, silverite irises seeming sharp in the way they dissected the man. Though she was no errant fan of Eldren Ceorlic, nor he her, neither did she like Eamon's continued interjections into meetings such as this one, held over the course of the week. He was Arl of Redcliffe, and Steward of the Crown, he wasn't the king himself. However she couldn't disagree with the decision put forth and held her tongue.

It was so surreal, Gwyneth thought, drumming her long fingers against the table in a slightly maddening rhythm. Once she had been conscripted, she imagined Grey Wardens were the only people in the whole of the world that knew the darkspawn as anything more than monsters of legend, nightmares of children to keep them from wandering into the woods at night. Over six months of traveling, she'd seen that change and it was prevalent here today. The Blight had turned fairytale monsters into stark reality and now, darkspawn were spoken of by nearly everyone, the nobles most of all.

"Eldren . . ." Eamon returned the bann's glare with one of his own, using the man's first name as a platform on which to press his words. "Are the burned down villages little more than a rumor? Are the bodies left to feed the flies along the roads a rumor? Are the people seeking refuge in the capital a rumor? The people of Ferelden are the proof we need, their suffering more than enough reason to send out the Knights of Denerim. Do you not agree, Highness?"

There in the council chamber Alistair is not Eamon's nephew, he is his king and he answers as such. "I would, yes. I don't like the idea of darkspawn picking off soldiers from the southern settlements until there are none left. I'll sign a writ ordering my knights to collect a retinue to travel to Lothering and meet with this Lord Lothian. My queen?"

"I concur, my king."

"This threat is miniscule until we know more, I do not consent to it." Bann Ceorlic covered his chest with thin arms.

"Arl Bryland?" The king turned his gaze in the red-haired man's direction.

"I vote yes."

"Arl Guerrin?"

"You already know where I stand, I vote yes as well."

Gwyneth smiled in that smug way of hers that was almost a second nature, taking her husband's hand as they both stood. "Very good then, it is settled. Bann Ceorlic, Arl Bryland, give our best to your families."

Though entirely displeased, Eldren Ceorlic bowed shortly, rising with a quickness that spoke of his sour mood. The discussion had clearly not gone in the direction he wanted. Behind him Alexander Bryland paused to kiss the free hand of the queen, nodding politely at the king. Everyone filed out into the halls, Eamon headed to the chambers afforded him as Steward of the Crown. Gwyneth took her husband's arm, long neck craned to watch Eamon go with a narrowed gaze, before turning her mask back to the king. Once they had made enough steps in the opposite direction, the young red-head's tone became conspiratorial, her thoughts made plain.

"I don't like the way he insinuates his own will into everything, he is only a _steward_ here." Gwyneth's whispered voice still held the full venom of it, had it been of normal volume.

"Gwyn, I thought you liked him?"

"I like him well enough, but that does not negate the fact that he has his fingers in too many pies around here."

"Is that some kind of euphemism for something?" Alistair is trying not to grin, but the boyish part of himself can't help it and he flinches when his humor earns him a sharp elbow in the side.

"He may have set up this whole . . ." Gwyneth waves her free hand, plucking her meaning from the air itself with delicate gesticulation. "Union, but that doesn't give him the right to always speak before you. _You_ are the king, not _him_."

The platonic newlyweds walked past several antechambers in the long hallway, their passage ruffling the long tapestries hanging along the walls. Through the thin windows, spring sunlight touched the manicured lawns of the palace grounds, a pair of elves pruning the queen's favorite lilac bushes, mesh veils hanging over wide brimmed hats to keep the pesky bees away.

"Gwyn-eth . . ." Alistair's rough-hewn voice separated the queen's name into two syllables, pronouncing it in such a way as to infer his frustration with the woman. "I'm more than willing to let those with better ideas speak first."

"Who says they are better? I would see my lord husband make his mark on Ferelden with his _own_ words, not the nodded murmured agreement for the plans of another."

Alistair almost stopped short, but Gwyneth continued as if she didn't even notice the ease with which she referred to him as her husband anymore. It occurred to him then, that he hadn't thought of her as a Grey Warden anymore than he had himself, for at least a few weeks. She was his 'queen' or his 'wife' Older titles had been left behind as much as that old life itself had been. Turning his thoughts back to the topic at hand was a chore, but he managed, with the addition of wry humor at the nature of the devising woman beside him. "Unless of course they are _your_ plans."

"But of course." Gwyneth smirked, watching the gardening elves with a passing glance, before those sharp silver eyes were staring at the tall man beside her. She stopped and her hold on his bent elbow caused him to do the same. "Eamon's job as Steward of the Crown is to assist the king in his duties, as a royal advisor, and to proceed over the jurisdiction of the capital if and when the sovereign is away. Since it seems your uncle has forgotten his place, I say we remind him, let him take up his duties such as they are realized in the courtly rules of this nation."

"I always hated it when you did this in camp, talking all vague. Just once I'd like to know what it's like to have someone speak straight." Alistair gave a dramatic sigh, slightly self conscious with the worry that anyone could overhear this conversation, than puzzled that he's worried it is something someone shouldn't hear. "But alas, it hasn't happened."

"_Straight_ talk is it? I want to go to Ostagar with the knights, I want _both_ of us to go. That straight enough for you?"

A thrill ran up his spine, the thought of getting out of the palace, and indoor fever that he didn't know he had until now. Then it was snuffed out when realization took its place. "Gwyn, Eamon would _never_ go for it, and I'm sure we would get an earful from Wynne too."

"See?! This is what I mean. Alistair, _so what_? So what if the Steward of the Crown and the Court Mage disapprove, _we_ are the sovereigns, not _they_. The decision is _ours_ to make, and none other's."

"Isn't it a little bit selfish? Just because we _want_ to?"

"Who said anything about going just because I . . . _we_ want to? Do you not see that it would be in the best interests of the people? We still have the blood of darkspawn in our veins, who better equipped to deal with them, than us? I have faced down a demonic dragon from the very pits of the abyss, you were there with me and there isn't nearly so much danger presented towards us as there would be against common soldiers. If there really is some 'spawn nest in Ostagar, as this Lord Lothian would report, _it is our duty _to investigate it as thoroughly as we can. As King and Queen of Ferelden, _it is our duty_." That posh high born accent dips low and there is seduction in it, but it isn't meant to arouse the flesh, but instead to stimulate the mind. Gwyneth widens her eyes at the king, appearing wholly sincere as if she is begging for his approval. No words cement that though, if she spoke it would ruin the hold she has. The queen can see Alistair's mind swimming behind his eyes, the way the brown irises darken with a depth of thought.

Nights that aren't plagued with memories of Leliana, are haunted torn landscapes of stone, ash and the smell of burning flesh. Alistair can remember with startling clarity that night at Ostagar, the night that changed his life into a twisted menagerie that was full of both great loss and great discovery. He imagines everyone that was left behind to be slaughtered, their cries drowned out by the roaring of a darkspawn horde. He can see Duncan's despair at what the man would've assumed was his failure. The king stares into the eyes of his wife, hot silverite pools that swallow him with the promise of releasing him from the burden of those nightmares. "Yes, yes, I think you're right."

* * *

"You're going to get yourself _killed_, Alistair. I didn't put you on the throne only to watch you ruin it with some selfish errand." Eamon Guerrin had both hands planted on the desk before him, staring down his adopted nephew.

"That's funny, because I seem to recall that I put _myself_ on the throne. All your planning wouldn't have made a difference if I refused. Gwyneth is right, _I'm_ the king, not _you_ and if I'm going to be a _good_ king I need to not only make my own decisions, but stand by them, even if my steward doesn't always agree."

"So, this is _her_ talking?"

"Unless my voice and looks have changed drastically, I'm pretty sure it's _me_ talking." A grin pulled at the corners of Alistair mouth, hands tucked under arms that crossed his chest, the most superior look he can manage dominating his face. There's still a part of him that yearns for Eamon's approval, that will somehow _always_ yearn for it, but so too does he remember when the man's decisions were suppose to be 'for the good of everyone.' Alistair had spent years wasting away, his spark of life dying under the heavy hand of the chantry, because Eamon thought it was best. Forgiveness had taken the place of feelings of betrayal and the two of them had found a tenuous peace and familiarity together. Today, however, the young king is determined. This isn't about his history with Eamon, it is about his own position as King of Ferelden. "Look, it's high time that I start acting like the sovereign I am. We both know that, and _this_ is my decision."

"I just want you to think it through. How will Ferelden fair with not one, but _both_ of their leaders off fighting darkspawn?"

"Maybe you forgot, but I was a Grey Warden long before I was a king, and I was training to be a templar before _that_." A new haughtiness is there, the handsome broad profile of the sovereign lined with rigid pride. It's unclear where it came from, the self-respect. Perhaps it is absorbed from the nature of his queen and perhaps it is like the seasons changing with a fresh year.

The small room is intimate and warm with the late afternoon sunlight, the dark wood and rich tapestries making it appear ever smaller. It hardly feels like they are in the palace at all.

Eamon smiles slowly. "Of course I haven't forgotten." There is something in Alistair's posture that reminds the arl heart-wrenchingly of Rowan. Nothing of the former queen's blood runs through the young king's blood, and yet Eamon cannot help but see some similarity, imagined or no.

Alistair nodded at the older man. "We'll be fine, trust me, and when we return, Gwyneth and I will have a better understanding of the darkspawn threat still here in Ferelden."

With a sigh, the arl sinks down into the wide chair behind the desk, feeling weary down to his bones. Somewhere out far beyond the city's skyline is the circle tower, and his son within. He misses his boy with every fiber of his being and suddenly he doesn't want to argue with his nephew. This is all he'll ever have, Isolde and Alistair, his family, for better or worse. It's more than his duty as steward that makes him acquiesce. "Very well, Alistair, I will watch over the capital while you are gone."

* * *

Burgeoning twilight is threatening at the edges of the horizon, but the sun is still there, a rich red glow that promises a good day on the morrow. It casts the flora in its warm haze, an almost amber light dancing through the spaces of flowering trees. The once grey stone of the palace is nearly white with wind and age, spots of sun bleached ivory dotting the base of the monumental structure, cleared of moss by the busy servants. The palace sits placid, watching the gardens that belong to it, with austere silence.

Two young elves are giggling together, the mesh of their gardening hats pulled back to clear their pale faces to the sun, soaking it in. They live in the servants quarters of the palace, a part of their cousins that live in far less picturesque surroundings in the alienage, but also removed from those other elves. Neither elfess has to return to a shack of a home, hoping no humans bother them on the tiring walk through the city, to the other side where what wind there is carries not the smell of spring blooms, but of fish and refuse. With their arms entwined together their musical chatter stops short, as they edge around the mage that they've spotted, wary but respectful, the two servants offer brief smiles and tip their heads before they're off again.

Wynne stands in the palace gardens, a private corner that she was delighted to find, where she practices her healing magic. Not so much for practice's sake, but to remind herself that it's still there, that _she _is still there. She can feel life ebbing away from her, like the current of the ocean leaving the shoreline behind it. Her title as Court Mage is not so much a functional position as a title Alistair gave her so she wouldn't come across too much opposition within the palace. Though the ivory haired woman is certain there are whispers in the halls, just like the two young elves that she just saw, chattering amongst themselves. Magic is frightening, even to _her_ sometimes.

A light crinkling noise on the dark rich green of the grass grabs her attention, and she turns from where she had been sitting on a simple carved stone bench.

"There you are Wynne. These heels aren't the best for treading on the lawn, but I wanted to speak with you before I retired for the evening." Gwyneth blinks against the sunset, a light hand shielding her eyes before she turns about to duck under a low hanging willow branch. "Mmm, it's nice out here." The young queen breathes the air in deeply, lids closed contentedly before she takes a seat beside the elderly mage.

Blue orbs sparkle in that waning light, smiling at the red-head just as much as that thin mouth. "Yes, I find myself out here more and more now that the weather has decided it needn't rain all the time. There was never a garden like this in the tower, or outside of it, rather." Wynne sighs, flexing out her fingers and wincing when they crack. '_Oh but it's awful to realize you are old_.'

"No, I imagine not." Gwyneth smoothes out her long skirts, the ivory and rose pattern done up in swirls that makes her think of ripe strawberries and fresh cream. This gown is one of her favorites, though the tight square cut of the bodice is something she knows the other nobility will take their time getting used to, but Gwyneth delights in thinking of herself as a pioneer of fashion in a nation hardly known for such. Her mother would be proud. "Wynne, I wanted to let you know that Alistair and I will be leaving soon, and that you and Eamon will be entrusted with the care-taking of the palace. Though I do imagine Eamon can take most of that in hand, I wanted to tell you in person, avoid any feelings that I am sneaking about. After all I'm the queen, I should not have to '_sneak about._'"

Wynne keeps her humor tightly bound behind her lips, but her eyes twinkle with it. "Of course not. May I ask where you're going?"

"Ostagar. I haven't been in my armor since . . ." The queen's voice drifts off, her mind taking her to her nightmare, that eerie man atop a Fort Drakon that was broken and battered now. No armor against the creature whose identity hovers just past conscious thought. She should think of the battle that was fought there against the archdemon, but instead there is only the man with Morrigan's eyes and yet not. "Well, in some time. Don't mistake me, as much as I miss the freedom that came with that life, this is far better suited to who I am, who I was raised to be and I like it . . . but . . . it shall be nice to be away from it for a time."

"You can't go back you know." There's none of the expected recrimination, no questions on why Alistair and Gwyneth would _want_ to go back to those ruins, there's only a sympathetic hand on the queen's shoulder. Wynne's voice carries an almost motherly intent, but then, that has always been a part of her, as much as being a mage is. "That life, it's gone."

Understanding hovers between the two women, staring at one another, and Gwyneth is the first to break, eyes sliding away to find fancy with the flowers. "I know and that isn't what this is, I just said it would be nice to get out there in the world again. That's all."

"Right, and if you find some closure, that would be _nice_ too."

"Wynne . . ." A warning in her tone, but her voice remains even.

The mage sighs, leaning back into the cold stone of the bench. "I understand, I do. You helped me find peace with Aneirin, against all odds. Who am I to deny you the same, and, as you said, you're the queen. If you think this will help the people of Ferelden, then you have to trust in yourself."

Gwyneth blinks with surprise, expecting something different. A pleasant warmth suffuses her limbs and she knows it isn't from the dropping orb in the sky. "Hmm, I would've thought you'd scold me, or the like."

"You're past needing to be scolded." Wynne stares off into the garden along with the woman beside her, a mirror separated only by their distinct ages and type of dress. "I received a letter last week. I hadn't reached a decision, but I think, perhaps I have now. Your leaving, it occurs to me that I don't really have a place here."

"That's not true Wynne. Your presence is important to me, well both of us." Gwyneth smiles at the mage, and isn't her usual brand of forced warmth, sly superiority or grinning humor. It's a real smile, there in the fading heat of the sun laid out before them

"It's kind of you to say so, but I think by now we all know that my _position_, it has little substance behind it." The blue eyed human felt tired, but she means to get her intent out. "The College of Magi in Cumberland has requested I travel there. They want to know what I learned during my time with you. I'm to be named Sage of the College, if I go, and teach others what I know. It's a high honor."

"Cumberland is in Nevarra. It will take you a month to get there, if the weather is in your favor." Nothing is revealed in the apathy of Gwyneth's tone.

"Yes, I was hoping for passage across the Waking Sea, perhaps at the port of Jader. There are small groups of Senior Mages that sometimes travel across to Cumberland that way. I've contacted Irving and he told me there is a small ship leaving next week, Tuesday, like as not."

"Tuesday." Gwyneth squeezes the bridge of her nose, eyes squinting in concentration. "Wynne, there are _still_ darkspawn out there. I don't like the idea of you traveling along the Coastlands, especially with my brother and his plans to retake Highever. There is too much battle to be found in that area of Ferelden."

"Yet the nobles have made trips _her_e to Alistair's many council meetings. What danger did _their_ travels present? Perhaps a lot, perhaps none at all, but they made them all the same. I'm not dead just yet, my dear, I can take care of myself just like you can."

"I know that. Just . . .Can you put this off if I charter you a safer, albeit longer, route?"

"What are you thinking of?"

"The Wardens from Orlais are headed for Amaranthine as we sit here. I can have the Knights of Denerim meet them there, I had planned to met them along with Alistair in any case. Come with us instead, and I'll get you your ship to Cumberland."

Wynne thought that over before nodding shortly. "Very well."

"When do you think you will be coming back?" Gwyneth posed the question without the expectation for a satisfying answer.

"Oh, who can say about these things." There's a sad smile on the mage's face, but even a sad smile brings beauty and light to her face.

"Wynne . . . You _are_ coming back, aren't you?"

"Of course."

Both women fall silent, because they know that this trip will be Wynne's last. It is the unspoken truth, fading away as the sun sets before them.

--


	13. Chapter 13: Thorns of Dead Gods

**Disclaimer:** _"Dragon Age: Origins" and all its expansions and additional content is the property of Bioware and EA Games. Large portions of written content within the game, as well as Dragon's Age: The Stolen Throne, and Dragon's Age: Calling, are the creation of David Gaider. Original scenarios and characters are used under the creative license of the writer, ItalianEmpress1985. No profit is being made and the following story is for entertainment purposes only_

**Words From The Author:** _Though many of you might remember that the family heirlooms of the Couslands were a sword and shield that the PC could take with them. For this story, that sword and shield was given to Fergus as heir to the teyrnir. Gwyneth's received the Thorns of Dead Gods from her father some time before their home was take over by Howe's men. Both children had armor with the laurel branches of their family seal on them. Just wanted to avoid some confusion, as I did change that for the tale you're reading._

_Mhairi is yet another NPC from Awakenings, those that played the game will likely recognize her. For those that haven't played the expansion, light spoiler warning for this chapter. It's mostly just characterization based off of what I know from the expansion so nothing severe in the spoilery department._

_I've found a lexicon on Ferelden months and holidays, very handy, but being that this fic is all about the embracing of a new age (well, not really ALL about, but you get the idea), I think I'll keep our calendar months, with the others serving as the more archaic names._

_There's some back and forth with time-stamps here, but I think it works out well enough, though I'll have to wait and see what you think of it, readers. This chapter's a bit heavier on Gwyneth's characterization (and Gwyneth/Cailan), both past and present, but I hope you all continue to enjoy it._

_I'm still getting accustomed to the medieval-meets-modern word usage David Gaider set up, where 'kick ass' and 'hot' exist in tandem with more archaic words. So if at any time you readers think something doesn't fit, it's alright to let me know, I'm definitely looking to improve on my writing._

_Thank you for stopping in. Watch out for low flying dragons!_

* * *

_**Chapter Thirteen:**_

_**Thorns of Dead Gods**_

* * *

August 27'th, 9:28 Dragon Age

_**H**__umid air settles upon the Coastlands as it does anywhere in northern Ferelden during the latter days of summer, seemingly endless hot hours where the only solace to be found is in thickest shade, chilled wine from the deep cellars and a dip in the waters of the Waking Sea. The tide is mild this time of year and many take joy in frolicking in the surf, the men with their breeches gathered up to the their knees and the ladies with their skirts tied at the waist to hang higher on their legs. The city of Highever is no different and Castle Cousland itself seems to bear up under the heat with the tenacity shared in rumor with the nobility that call it home. It sits up on the cliffs, a grading hill made by the hands of man to lead down to the sand of the coast, bleached by the sun as dark water splashes against it._

_Today the noble family celebrates the birthday of their daughter, second and youngest of the two Cousland children. Though with their son at twenty seven with a wife and son, and the daughter turning eighteen, their childhood is but a memory._

_Teyrn Bryce Cousland and his wife Eleanor take the rare opportunity for a stroll, the grounds of the castle teeming with nobility and servants. Music and voices clamor about with the smell of good food and drink in abundance. Their daughter is under a wide pavilion, enjoying the shade and chilled wine with a small knit group of other noble daughters near her age. More sycophants than friends, but Gwyneth enjoys their gossip all the same._

_The gathered girls are like a small flock of swans, all pale skin and elegant movements, voices high and almost squawking when they laugh. Gwyneth is surrounded by her finely frocked retinue of young ladies, all currying for the favor of the Lady of Highever._

_An elf is too slow lowering a tray, mumbling apologies that go unnoticed by most, except for Lady Aurelia Hascal, daughter of the bann and banness of White River. She sneers at the servant, pretty blonde hair pulling her face tight from where its secured in a braided bun. "Can you do nothing in a timely manner?" The elf apologizes again and scurries away, leaving Aurelia to turn her attention to the lady of the day. "Really, Gwyn, if they were _my_ servants, I'd have my father flog them."_

"_I'm sorry, Lia, my flower, did you say something?" The Lady of Highever's smile is just shy of uncaring, and at the other girl's blank face, she laughs. The twittering noise is quickly picked up by the other ladies of privilege. "I do apologize, we were too overtaken with thoughts of gowns."_

"_Do you think your father brought you another frock from Tevinter for your birthday? Oh, I should love to see it. You are _so lucky _to have such a fashionable holding. I sometimes feel as if the rest of Ferelden is conditioned to remain in their image of mud huts and filthy dogs for an eternity. Really, I'm wasted in such a life." Lady Dulcenea, Bann Ceorlic's middle daughter, pressed the back of her hand to her forehead dramatically, using the other to fan herself with a broad-feathered fan the Couslands gave all the girls visiting today. "Your mother is such a pioneer in fashion. _My _mother says it's because she is half Orlesian."_

"_My mother, is 'half' nothing, she was born and bred here in Ferelden and you should tell Banness Rosalind to bite her treasonous tongue!" Gwyneth's silver eyes blaze, but only for a moment, taking in the shock on the other girl's face, before she smiles and laughter begins anew. "Really, Dulcy, you are far too easily duped."_

"_Oh yes, don't we know it!" Aurelia grins with glee. "Lord Nathaniel Howe 'duped' her just last month."_

_Dulcenea gasped, pressing a hand to her bosom. "Lia, you little snipe! How dare you tell on me!"_

_Delilah, the shyest of their collection, lowers her gaze at talk of her brother._

_Aurelia is without remorse as she continues. "Had a roll with him she did and it must have been _some_ fucking. 'Oh Nate!' She went on about him for _weeks_. Personally I think he has a _hideous_ nose, it's practically a beak, though his voice is, in a word, sublime."_

_The other two girls sit with interested posture, fanning themselves slow enough to hear what Gwyneth has to say on it. She doesn't disappoint. "Dulcy, what of your _virtue_? What of your _duty_ to the Maker? If your father found out . . ." The lady trailed off, hand held as if waiting for the rest of her words to be found there in the humid air around them._

"_You _can't_ tell him, please, we are all friends here."_

"_Well, I might be persuaded to 'forget' it . . . If . . . "_

"_If?"_

"_You give me some of that black lotus you've been hiding."_

_There come two gasps, one worried and one curious. Dulcenea straightened on the wealth of pillows propping her up, in a similar position to the other noble daughters. "Oh _alright_."_

"_Is that . . .is this _legal_?" Lady Delilah Howe bites at her nails, watching the servants and other guests meandering about the lawn. Teyrn and Teyrna Cousland have returned from their stroll, and are mingling with her father, Arl Rendon Howe and King Cailan Theirin. A special visit indeed._

"_Of course it's not _legal_, but it _is_ sinfully delicious. Stop being a prude, Del, and learn to take some risks, or are you content to be a wide eyed featherhead all your life?" Gwyneth's smile turns acidic as she takes the two dried black leaves and crushes them into her wine. Eyes turn out to the coastal woodland just at the periphery of their vision. "Your _brothers _take risks. Why just the other day Thomas was telling me 'A Howe is unafraid to claim what they want.'"_

"_Yes, I'll just bet he did, and he clearly wants to dip his wick in _you_." Aurelia grinned wickedly as she took the black lotus and added it to her own wine._

"_Several men do I imagine, it doesn't mean they'll get between my thighs. I won't be a little slut to win anyone over." The insult is clearly directed at Dulcenea, who sticks out her tongue, passing some of the black lotus to the twitchy Delilah. "Mother has made it a severe point to stress that I must remain a maiden until I'm wed, but for now, it is a fun game to be sporting with all the boys of Ferelden, and nothing makes them salivate for me more than when I play hard to get." Gwyneth laughs with the others at her way with men. _

"_A game is it, what of a challenge then?" Aurelia knows she can say that, can dare that, because everyone knows she is Gwyneth's 'best friend', even if neither young woman really cares much for the other. _

"_Name him, Lia, and I'll have him besotted before my father begins the gifting hour." Gwyneth holds her head high as she watches Aurelia survey the grounds, and then the blonde girl's face lights up with a devious smirk._

"_The king."_

"_No, Gwyneth! You shouldn't approach a _married_ man, our _sovereign_!" Delilah is aghast._

"_It's just a _game_, Del. Well, do you accept the challenge?" Aurelia stares down her 'friend'_

"_Yes, I do." Gwyneth rises, a bit tipsy from the wine she's already consumed and the heady sensation of the black lotus. Gathering pale green skirts, she checks herself, making sure every strand of hair is in place, pushing up her cleavage to where just a hint of it shows above the corset-style of her birthday gown. "Wish me luck, girls."_

_Dulcenea yawns, fanning herself with fervor, dark eyes rolling at the fretting Delilah beside her. "Yes yes, good luck pet."_

_They watch her until her figure is but a blur amidst the heated landscape._

"_You think the king will notice her?" The Howe girl has stopped chewing on her fingernails for the moment, slowly beginning to relax as the potent Nevarran drug works its way through her system._

"_Of course he will, she's Gwyneth Cousland, but I do wonder if she hasn't reached too high this time." A secret smile curves in the corner of Aurelia's full lips._

"_But _you _gave her the challenge." _

"_Yes, Del, and she took it up. It's like dangling yarn before a kitten." Dulcenea grinned with Aurelia, momentarily forgetting that she should hate the older girl for spilling her secret. "She never could resist a thrown gauntlet."_

* * *

May 11'th, 9:31 Dragon Age

"You _could_ just give up, no one here would think their queen a coward."

"Hah! I'll not make it so easy for you, my king."

"Nothing about you _ever_ has been 'easy'."

"Then you understand that I will not yield, not in a _million years_."

"You're used to practicing with a smaller . . . man, I'm much larger."

"Yes, I might've noticed."

"Oh yes?"

"Are we going to _talk_ or are you going to come after me?"

The King and Queen of Ferelden have amassed a small, but growing audience out on the practice yard behind the royal palace. Rumors of their prowess as near-infamous Grey Wardens had long since traveled well beyond the boundaries of Denerim, but both sovereigns hadn't been seen engaging in any kind of fighting or the practice of it since the defeat of the archdemon. It's a sight to behold.

A few of the more recent additions to the Knights of Denerim have taken to placing bets on who the winner of this little scrap will be. To the displeasure of their junior member, a woman who is both honored to have been knighted on equal footing with the men and slightly uncomfortable as the only female left of the order. Mhairi had spent the first year of her service under King Cailan, his loss affecting her deeply, where love of Ferelden pulsed in her heart. At that time there had been a few other female knights, but they had died defending Denerim from the Blighted horde.

"How can you gamble on the skill of our sovereigns? It could be considered treason, surely." She frets, nervously playing with the end of a dark brown braid flung over one shoulder.

"Relax, Mhairi, or you'll worry yourself into an early grave, besides, His Highness encourages his knights to be in good spirits. I don't know about you, but I'm in pretty good spirits." Ser William smiles and it is not condescending, only calm and jovial.

When King Alistair and his bride-to-be had taken their places as the royal couple of Ferelden, Mhairi wasn't sure of them. She'd heard the rumors, same as anyone, that the king had an Orlesian whore before he'd even taken the crown, that the queen was the former mistress of Cailan, but she'd also heard of what they did to defend Ferelden. The queen had nearly died to defeat the archdemon, the gossips said and Ser Mhairi knew that the woman _had_ been abed for several days afterward, not making any appearances. Now Queen Gwyneth _consistently_ made appearances, always seen at her husband's side in matters of king and country, her voice speaking with King Alistair's when an official decree was made. The king himself had proven to be a fair ruler, in these early weeks of his position as sovereign, and the strengths he took from the Grey Wardens were prevalent in his thoughts concerning darkspawn, in the enviable ease in which he could speak about the best ways to defeat them.

Now the young Ser Mhairi watched as they showed their strengths, both together and apart, in an entirely different way.

Gossips also spoke of the rumored endurance of Wardens, amidst dirty minded snickering, but it seemed to be true. For an hour the king and queen faced off against each other. He in a remade set of golden plate, the original having been lost with King Cailan at Ostagar, and she in high quality studded leathers, the laurel crest of the Couslands standing out proud against her sternum. At the king's challenge to the queen, it had started, to see which of them still 'had it' as per King Alistair's words. Mhairi would've thought His Highness had clear advantage, he had a broad muscular build made ever more severe encased in a plated hauberk, trained by Templars by his own admission, that talent made with a fine broadsword and a shield with a white-etched griffon on it. What was surprising was that _Her_ Highness was holding her own, beads of sweat on her face as she grinned madly at the king, two strangely shaped short swords in her hands, sunlight glinting off their silverite surface. The shape made Mhairi think of snakes and their twisting movements, and the queen twirled them around so their tips faced forward as she made another lunge at the king.

Ser William said he heard the woman was trained by a rogue Crow assassin, an elf at that, but Mhairi scoffed at him. The idea was ludicrous. "Twenty silver on the queen."

William looked at the woman in surprise, before a grin over took him. "I'll see that bet, twenty silver on the king." They continued to watch on the sidelines, their sovereigns seemingly oblivious to them or anything apart from each other and their movements.

A sharp clang of metal on metal as Alistair's sword met the crossed blades of his wife and he was shoved back when her booted foot connected with his breast plate. Panting he brought his shield around as she made another lunge, the twin blades an extension of her arms. She connected with the shield with a loud woosh of air, expelled from her lungs and the woman looked almost tipsy as she backed up.

"Gwyn, you're tired, come on, let's just end this." He was beginning to get concerned, her refusal to quite admirable but foolish.

"No, not until one of us goes down. _You_ started it, _I_ intend to finish it!" The short swords twirled in a move the king recognized as a double-bladed flurry. As she attacked him, one blade found its way past the shield when he moved the wrong way, exposing his right flank for just a split second, but that small moment was more than enough opening for the queen. She got him in between his plates.

Alistair seethed in pain and a hushed murmur passed through their audience, some of the guards and knights getting worried now that some blood was spilled, but neither the king nor the queen made any commands for aid. It was just a practice scrap, they weren't intending on killing each other.

Gwyneth's muscles were screaming in protest, having gone unused for so long. A painful spasm shot through her biceps and she gritted her teeth, the taste of copper on her tongue from over-worked lungs. The Thorns of Dead Gods were calling to her, though, and she wouldn't deny them. They yearned to be in the hands of their mistress, the last taste of combat they had gotten was a long dead dragon, whose corpse had burned away at the top of Fort Drakon. Through the exhaustion, she grinned, Alistair looking at her with surprise.

He could see it on her face, she was pushing herself to the brink of passing out and he didn't know why. With a hand at his side, he held the other out to her, putting the broadsword in its scabbard. "Alright, I think that's enough."

"What? No! I can keep going!"

Silver irises bore into brown and finally the blonde king nodded. If she wasn't going to hold back, neither was he. It really was a shallow stab she'd made, but it still stung when salty sweat hit it and Alistair winced as he tightened his posture, sword drawn once more and at the ready. Gwyneth feinted to the right as her sparring partner made a quick move forward, but it was a ruse, and when he pulled back at a half-length, the queen knew she'd expended more energy to avoid him then he'd used for the fake-out.

Her overly tight armor made a squeak inherent to sweaty leather and the young queen scolded herself for over indulging this past month, with little in the way of exercise to prevent the weight gain. At least she wasn't alone in that problem, eyes taking in the king, who didn't look too comfortable in his own heavy plate. Flexing her shoulders caused a crack somewhere in the region of her neck, and Gwyneth winced. Her elbows were even with her hips, moving only when her ribs expanded outward when she drew in deep panting breaths. Fingers held tightly to the grip of her twin blades, wrists curved, the tips of the swords wavered. Sweat dripped from her brow and she blinked, eyes stinging, the weight of her long braid pinned haphazardly at the back of her head. Back and forth she weaved on her feet, nerves twitching, dancing beneath her skin as she waited for Alistair to make his move.

His eyes narrowed on the woman opposite him, her height putting her at just under his nose if she were closer. Closing that distance would be a chore, she was wary, coiled like a snake in the grass waiting to strike. Even exhausted the woman was on point. Zevran had taught her well, but the assassin _hadn't_ taught her the proper way to defend from one who carried a shield. There in it was Alistair that had the advantage. A small smile pulled up the corners of his mouth, a growing dark blonde goatee almost dripping with sweat beneath those full lips. On his right arm, a thick band of metal made space for his hand, his gloved fingers tightening on the handle, the edges of the shield glinting under the sun. The left hand held the handle of his broadsword like a lifeline, the long length of the blade reached from just past his wrist to nearly two feet out.

Gwyneth was dancing back and forth on the balls of her feet, eyes watching him like a hawk. Alistair bent to the left, she bent to right, mirroring him. The former templar let his muscles coil, putting some force behind his movement as he charged her, she feinted away at the last second, but his shield clipped her arm. With a shout of surprise, one of the queen's blades went flying from her hand, end over end to finally lay to rest on the packed earth of the training grounds. She made the error of going to get it and Alistair took the opportunity to charge her again, and that time she didn't move out of the way quick enough.

With the air knocked out of her, the red-head went backwards onto the ground, hard, the other blade joining its twin. Alistair was on her before she could skitter away, the point of his broadsword under her chin, a smile of victory on his face. "Concede."

"You first." The devious grin should have tipped him off, but before he realized what was going on she had her feet behind his calves and caught him up. As the king fell she moved deftly, yanking his broadsword from his grasp.

Alistair had his back to the ground, his queen straddling him, with his own weapon pressed against his neck. She was smilingly cattily, leather-clad thighs holding his plated hips. He wasn't going anywhere.

"Concede." The words were pleased, the glint in her eyes even more so when Alistair glared at her.

"You _cheated_."

"Aww, don't be a sore loser. What is it they say? All's fair in love and war, and this is war."

"I concede." The king ground out as Gwyneth got up, offering him a hand and his sword back. "You just can't _stand_ for someone to best you, can you?"

The queen shrugged as they both made for the edges of the practice grounds, where the knights were busy paying or receiving their bet money. "It's just not in my nature."

* * *

August 27'th, 9:28 Dragon Age

_Gwyneth Cousland sat beside the King of Ferelden, laughing together into their wine goblets. The Lady of Highever leaned over to whisper something into the king's ear, the man's long blonde hair held back in a braided pony-tail. He smiled broadly, a little _too_ broadly for Teyrn Bryce Cousland's liking._

"_Our daughter seems to have made fast friends with Cailan." Teyrna Eleanor Cousland was at her husband's side, the long shimmering fabric hanging from her goblet a match to her fancy vestments. The Teyrna was well known for being the most fashionable woman in the country, a trait that was inherited by her daughter. It was gossiped that the Couslands would be the family to bring new respect to Ferelden, raising the country from the image of barbarians to a people that could be just as elegant as Orlais and Tevinter, but for now Eleanor was pleased to merely bring her mother's flair to her fellow noblewomen._

"_Mmm, yes. I don't like it."_

_Eleanor smiled, patting her husband on the shoulder. Her light green eyes watched the pairing seated across the way, her mind turning with thoughts and machinations already. _

_The teyrn looked to see his wife's face, recognizing her thoughts for what they were, plain to see. "Eleanor, whatever you're thinking, don't. Someone is going to start saying something, if we don't break them apart."_

"_My over-protective darling . . . Let them be for a moment. Besides should we not start Gwyneth's gifting hour?"_

_Bryce nodded, standing to ring a fork against his glass, the noise drawing awareness as he cleared his throat. "If I may have everyone's attention. Firstly, my wife and I are very pleased you could all join us today. Especially our sovereign, King Cailan, and fortunate we are indeed to have your company."_

"_I wouldn't have missed this Bryce, well I might've, I'm terrible with dates, but my steward kept me on point." Cailan smiled charmingly, earning the besotted sighs of more than a few women gathered in the dining hall, not all of them unattached. The nobles laughed at his humor as was expected, and the king waved a hand for them to be silent so the teyrn could finish speaking._

"_Today we celebrate the birth of our beloved daughter, Lady Gwyneth Cousland, who has seen eighteen years of life. May this year be as blessed as the rest of them have been." Teyrn Cousland raised his glass, as everyone stood from their seats and did the same. _

_King Cailan uttered the well wishes for the toast before Bryce could. "To Gwyneth Cousland, a gift from the Maker himself. May she continue to share her brilliance with us for many years to come."_

"_To Gwyneth Cousland!" The toast was made, Cailan smiling as if he was quite pleased with himself, sparing a blue eyed glance to the bubbly lady beside him, who was adoring the compliments._

_Bryce Cousland's own smile was tight as he made the toast, having no other choice once it was spoken. He was worried that if Cailan and Gwyneth continued on as they were , there would be some unpleasant rumors soon enough. His wife seemed to be enjoying it though, and he was worried as to what she had in mind. Clearing his throat, he continued before the king could make another speech. "As is tradition with the nobility of Ferelden, we show our respect to the birthday girl with a gifting hour, where all the gifts so generously brought will be opened, by my daughter so we can see what she has been presented with. As our highest ranking noble, King Cailan, if you would present your gift first . . ."_

_Servants had a chair set up in the middle of the floor, cleared of other furniture and Gwyneth rose to walk over and take a seat, hands folded demurely in her lap. Her face was bright with her enjoyment. She was a girl that greatly craved attention and she had it in spades today. _

_King Cailan waved his own servants in as they carried a large potted plant, a light blue ribbon, Gwyneth's favorite color, tied around the thin trunk._

"_A white flowering lilac bush, from the royal palace, the only plant to bloom white instead of the purple of its cousins. Just as Lady Cousland herself stands out, so do these lilacs. Their fragrance is both sweet and delicate, and their lovely flowers bloom annually. As it seems Lady Cousland grows lovelier with each passing year." Cailan's eyes were locked with Gwyneth's for perhaps a bit longer than was necessary but he was soon looking about the rest of the room as they clapped. He likely didn't know a whit about flowers, but whoever had informed him, he spoke the information as if he was an expert._

"_Thank you for the thoughtful gift. Though I have never had any lilacs here on the castle grounds, I'm sure they will soon become my favorite blooms." The Lady of Highever nodded her head in the king's direction as he took a seat, and it was now her father and mother's turn._

_Gwyneth had been expecting a gown, but the box that was brought to her by an elven servant wasn't the same size as the ones her previous gowns had come in. She lifted one cinnamon brow at that, silver irises widening with shock as she untied the ribbon and saw what was inside._

_She turned the box so others could see, then drew them out, looking a bit silly holding such things while wearing a fancy gown. In her hands were two glowing silverite blades, fashioned in a strange weaving shape, runes etched onto the metal in a language Gwyneth didn't know._

_"They are called the Thorns of Dead Gods, rumored to contain the spiritual essence of the Old Gods that walked the planes both above and below long before any of us knew the first taste of life . . . and before anyone sends the chantry after us, I had them blessed by Mother Mallol, our priestess here in Highever. The Maker grants his blessing to these blades, no blasphemy today, I promise." Bryce smiled at the easy laughter that followed his words. "I thought this year warranted something a bit more special than a gown."_

"_In Ferelden we like our women to look beautiful _and_ kick some ass." A voice from one of the older noblewomen rang out in the hall and more chuckling followed, the man's wife scolding him for his language._

_Unsure of what to say, Gwyneth stammered at first, but quickly found her voice. "Thank you, Father. They are definitely . . . unique. Perhaps some incentive to continue my sword-craft?" A cheeky grin was sent to the teyrn, knowing that she was far from good with blades. "I like them."_

_Love was present in Bryce Cousland's eyes as he looked at his youngest, and he was nearly overwhelmed with the feeling of it just then. "I'm glad. May they keep you safe, when I cannot."_

* * *

May 11'th, 9:31 Dragon Age

It had been lovely to have the Thorns in her hands again today, like the caress of a lover after a long absence. Gwyneth smiled, even though it pained her and she was pretty sure her face was sun burnt. When her father had given them to her, she thought them odd birthday presents, but an eighteen year old Gwyn had no way of knowing they would prove to be the greatest gifts he ever gave her. The Thorns of Dead Gods had seen her through countless battles, they had helped her end the life of the archdemon and save Ferelden from the Blight. '_This one's for you, Papa_.'

Alistair was still in a snit that he'd lost their little skirmish. Gwyneth intended to let him be pig-headed and sour if he so chose, and when he'd stalked away from her, calling for the servants to have a bath ready, the queen smirked. He was changing, that much was obvious in his demeanor, certainly so for one that had professed little care for hygiene on the road all those months. The king would never admit it to his queen, but she knew that he was developing a taste for cleanliness and fresh clothes. Yet still there was the little boy she'd met so long ago at Ostagar, the ruins that awaited them as the royal couple left the capital on the morrow, with a half dozen Knights of Denerim.

She'd won their contest of wills and skill fair and square . . . '_Well, perhaps not _fair_, but what place did rules of engagement have in fighting anyway_?' The question hung on the end of the red-head's tongue as she swept through the halls, her armor, now removed, having left a chafe in all the _wrong_ places. The simple breeches and linen shirt that had been beneath were stiff with sweat. Siofra had gone on ahead of her to heat some water for a nice hot bath. Gwyneth's body could hardly wait and she hurried along to the royal bedchamber. She'd given Alistair more than enough time to be done and gone.

Siofra smiled, blonde curls pinned into a neat bun, and exposing her pointed ears, as she leaned over the massive ceramic tub. Another fixture that definitely spoke more of Cailan's distinct taste for finery. "I brought some bath salts for you, Highness." The lady in waiting waved the now empty sachet and drew back from the tub, wiping a hand across her brow and the perspiration there, caused by the tendrils of steam rising from the water. "I'd give it a minute or two, a little too hot."

Gwyneth nodded her head at the petite elfess. "You know, you didn't have to do this yourself, there are plenty of maid servants that could've done just as well."

The elfess waved her off. "Bah! Besides if I do it myself, I know it's done right."

"Very pragmatic of you."

"I try."

An awkward silence settled between the woman and the elfess. Their's was a relationship of service, but in a month of being together, there was something on the cusp of friendship, except still that sense of duty and keeping one's place pervaded over all. With another short smile, Siofra bobbed her head and ducked out of the room.

"Siofra?"

The elfess paused in the doorway. "Yes, Highness?"

"Thank you." Gwyneth smiled kindly as Siofra returned the expression, falling into a short curtsey, and was out the door. She knew her lady preferred to undress for bathing alone.

As the sound of the door closing left the room in heavy silence, Gwyneth pulled at the ties of her shirt, wrinkling her nose at the smell when she lifted it from her head. A glance in the mirror behind the screen gave evidence to some bruising from today's exertions, and she frowned at her reflection before yanking off the breeches. The queen gave a short yelp when she accidentally nicked the flesh at her hips with her fingernails. '_This is the last time I try to fit into attire too small for me_!' Before retiring for the evening she'd give orders for her armor to be let out, and it would be a rush job, but at least the studded leather wouldn't be trying to strangle her body.

The soothing scent of tea roses hit her nostrils before she'd even gotten into the tub, and she closed her eyes in pleasure. One toe tested the water, and then she stepped in, sinking down into the water and letting the heat work at her tired muscles and bruised skin. She reached back behind her to the small table sat beside the tub, an elaborate scrubbing sponge laid out with a small dish of hair pins. Finding what she wanted, wet fingers worked the length of her dark red hair into a pile atop her head, a few stray strands against her neck and her lids closed down on her enjoyment as she washed away the day's sweat.

Behind her eyes she saw Ostagar, the bones of grey burnt stone reaching towards the sky. She saw Cailan smiling at her, with the Kocari Wilds spread out before them, his lips firm and masculine, gaze breathtakingly blue. Around his neck hung an amulet Gwyneth had given him for his birthday the previous month, a fine golden dragon, a sapphire held in its shining jaws. _How many times had she told herself that what began as a game with him, had become a friendship, how many times had she told herself that she wasn't in love with him_? With the ghosts left behind in that ruin, maybe it was time that she finally admitted that she had indeed been in love with him. If she couldn't embrace her heart, she could never move forward. His name passed her lips, as her fingers unconsciously stroked against her clavicle, where she could feel her voice vibrating against that pale skin. "Tomorrow, Cailan, tomorrow."


	14. Chapter 14: Shadow of a Rose

**Disclaimer:** _"Dragon Age: Origins" and all its expansions and additional content is the property of Bioware and EA Games. Large portions of written content within the game, as well as Dragon's Age: The Stolen Throne, and Dragon's Age: Calling, are the creation of David Gaider. Original scenarios and characters are used under the creative license of the writer, ItalianEmpress1985. No profit is being made and the following story is for entertainment purposes only._

* * *

**Words From The Author**_**:**__ So I was having myself a Ghost Hunters marathon the other day, and I got to the Halloween Special, from Fort Delaware back in 2008, and Steve Valentine was the guest host! Steve Valentine, the man who voices Alistair Theirin. So not only can the man hunt darkspawn, but he can hunt ghosts as well. No limits, Steve, no limits. I thought I'd share that with you all, because I was STOKED! :D I utterly geeked out for a few minutes (it may have been ten, even)_

_Alistair's 'rose' scene has been somewhat refurbished for this story I think it works pretty well, but what do I know? I just work here. :p_

_I know many of you were probably looking forward to Ostagar, but this chapter needed to come first. I hope it is enjoyed, and that you still enjoy Ostagar in the following installment. There's a bit more with the 'man' in Gwyneth's dream that I liked in particular, though I think Alistair carries most of this chapter._

_Thank you for stopping in. Watch out for low flying dragons!_

* * *

_**Chapter Fourteen:**_

_**Shadow of a Rose**_

* * *

May 16'th, 9:31 Dragon Age

_**C**__ailan Theirin, King of the Crown lay back in the wet __grass__, a thick blanket protecting his fine clothes from the dew, his blue eyes closed to the stars shining in the sky above. _

_Gwyneth Cousland lay beside him, an escape from the king's birthday celebration in the palace that looms at their back. Here in this private sanctum of the royal garden, they have a moment where their friendship can bloom without the stale __weight__ of rumors. The Lady of Highever smiles at the thought. She reaches into a small pouch beside her, tenderly removing a gift wrapped in white linen cloth. "Here, I wanted to give this to you in private. Those dreadful gossips would've said something if they saw it." She recalls with bitter guilt how this association began, first a challenge, later thoughts of replacing her friend's wife with herself quickened her attention. She recalls also how it changed, how _he_ changed her. This man is her friend, not merely a pretense of the title._

_Cailan leans up on his elbows, so much a boy and less a king, with the excitement at receiving a gift from his dearest friend. He takes it from her, the lady's hands soft to the touch. Unwrapping the linen he finds an amulet, the golden dragon shines in the moonlight, revealing the sapphire __caught__ in its grand jaws._

"_I saw it amongst the new goods being brought in from Tevinter and I thought 'This is so suited to my Cailan'." There is a smile in the red-head's voice, nothing but the crinkling of her gown disturbing the silence, the noises of the party far enough away to be but a murmur and easily ignored. Gwyneth knows they cannot manage this escape for long, soon they will have to return, but not yet._

"_Your Cailan is it? Then I will have to call you my Gwyneth." The look of happiness between them is intense. Finally her silver eyes slide away from his and she lays back, tracing patterns in the stars with a bejeweled finger, whatever was on the verge of becoming reality for the pair, pushed aside again. Saved for later. "Thank you, this is a lovely gift. I shall wear it for luck, always." He will hide it from view beneath his fine shirts or golden armor, but wear it he will. Gwyneth knows it is so._

"_Always is a long time, my king."_

"_Yes it is, my lady."_

_Silence, not uncomfortable, envelops the pair. The blonde man runs fingers through his hair, relaxing back as his gaze studies his companion. Her dark red ringlets call to him, they call for him to feel their softness, but he resists and instead joins their owner in her star-gazing. Soon he has to return to the other nobles, smile at them, knowing that many think him a fool. The weight of that must be heavy, for he speaks his mind. "They don't understand, what it's like, to live everyday under the shadow of my father. I am to be his image reborn? What of my _own _ideas, my _own _dreams? I would stay out here with you Gwyn, stay and feel accepted as Cailan, the king who would make his dreams a reality. Such glorious dreams."_

"_Glorious . . . Yes, I like that."_

"_Ferelden could be grand, oh how grand it could be Gwyneth! Celene believes there is much potential here." He speaks of the Empress of Orlais, but says nothing more, leaving that association up to interpretation as he has done since he felt open enough to talk about her._

"_Well, if 'Celene' says so, it certainly must be true." Gwyneth's eyes narrow at the sky, and she can feel jealousy in her guts, but what right does she have to be jealous? Cailan is her friend, and nothing more . . . Isn't he? "Ah, but she is not so wrong, and neither are you. My mother has always felt that Ferelden could be quite fashionable and fine a nation if the people so chose. I have some ideas of my own of course. I've always liked longer gowns, sweeping grandly in the brightest hues." She giggles at her own fancies. "The fierce flowers of Ferelden. I think I could start a trend, in fact, I just might."_

_The king turns his head to look at her and she does the same, silver captured in blue. Without thinking he steals her hand, twining their fingers together. They fit perfectly, to his increasing delight. "What a gem you are, my pretty, witty Gwyn."_

_There's something she should say, such a honest compliment asks for an answer, but her tongue grows heavy. She murmurs only words that will see her out of the tense waiting look in Cailan's bright blue irises. "We should get back, before they send out the Mabari." Gwyneth gets up, her nerves twitching, uncomfortable and secretly thrilled at the way the king is looking at her._

_He sighs and nods, just as someone starts calling his name. Gwyneth stays behind and waits, wanting to make sure they head back at separate times, and she watches him go, smiling when he looks back at her once more before he's out of sight._

"_Always to be left, aren't you? Typical of mortals I suppose, so fickle, so swayed by 'love'. Lust is more honest, it's primal at least, what is love but a lie people tell themselves so they don't feel alone? But _you_ understand that, my queen, _you_ know." That voice of haze and nightmare interjects the peaceful memory. "Playing with those boys, like . . . Thomas was it? Heavy petting in his family's stables, and he wanted to take you there, in the hay, like a common slut. Of course, you were soaking wet for him, because somewhere inside you wanted to know what it felt like. Naughty girl, still you denied him, denied them all."_

_He stepped forward, this nameless entity of nightmare, shockingly handsome with his black hair and golden eyes. He stares down at the silver eyed queen before him, and she is so taken up with him that she doesn't cry out in fear when the dreamscape shifts around her. What had been the royal gardens was now little more than a plain of blurring colors and wind, swirling the shades into coalescing shapes._

"_Why? Why am I seeing _you_ again?" The question is heavy in Gwyneth's unconscious mind._

"_Because I'm bored, and there is little else to bide my time as I await my rebirth." He takes one of her cinnamon ringlets, twirling it with long fingers. "Red hair, hmm, I think they used to sacrifice a lot of ginger haired virgins to me, the Avvars. I cannot recall now. There we so many of us Old Gods then, but I was feared above all, The Destroyer, they called me. I doubt there is anyone left that remembers my name anymore." Something akin to melancholy sat in those eerie golden orbs, as he moved around the queen, smoothly gliding as if they were dancing. His voice is both seductive and haunting. It draws Gwyneth in, hypnotized by the words. "But _you_, you freed me from being remade again and again, trapped in that twisted shell of a dragon. So ugly wasn't it? I can't say as this form will be better . . ." Hands sweep outward, indicating his body such as it is. "But I do look forward to the change, and there is power to be had, I am leeching it from my host as I grow. A strangely thrilling experiment."_

"_This is impossible, you aren't real, so why do you look the same? If this a dream, I don't understand why you remain unchanged. I've never even _seen_ such a man as you before." Gwyneth can feel him behind her, and she shivers as his breath tickles her ear._

"_The answer to that would seem simple, that though this place is a dream, _I_ am not. That my image is thus because it is my own, not created by _your_ mortal imaginings, but by _my_ immortal power."_

_The queen's eyes go wide, and she shakes her head. "No, you _must_ be a dream. I . . . the last time . . . You said you killed Anora, but a dream can't kill anyone, and it was just, well it was because I must've been thinking about her death while I was sleeping, so, there you were."_

"_Have it all figured out do you? I think not, and I never said _I_ killed your rival, I simply said her demise was your wedding gift. Still, I return to you again, and why? I ask myself the same question. Tis certainly more than sheer boredom. I find you . . .intriguing. Usually when a Warden defeats my 'kind' they die, the opportunity I was given is lost. You, however, did not die. The witch provided the ritual and the body, the other Warden provided the seed, and you brought it together, slicing me open and releasing my soul and the taint along with it. Pain, such pain, but also I felt you, saw what you saw, knew what you knew. Oh, the wicked thoughts in your head, my queen." He smiled, tracing a fingernail along her jaw line. "Admit that you're _glad_ she's dead. You are glad that Anora was found hanging by her duplicitous neck, until her eyes bulged out and her face turned purple. Your power was purchased with the sacrifice of others. We are not so different, you and I." The dark one leaned down and she thought he was going to kiss her again._

"NO!" The queen yells, fighting off the quilt that's wound itself around her legs during her nocturnal distress. Her heart is beating erratically, hammering like a drum behind her ribs, as she presses a palm against it, the other running across her jaw where _he_ touched her. She has to reassure herself that she is alone, and she is.

"Highness! Highness?" A knight's voice comes from just past the thick canvas that gives privacy to the wagon. "Are you alright?"

"I . . . yes, Ser, I'm fine, thank you. A bad dream, nothing more. Go back to your duties or your rest as you will have it."

"As you wish, Majesty." The unidentified knight's voice is unsure, but his footsteps sound away all the same.

The young queen is inside a covered wagon, the space where Alistair had been is empty, and for a moment Gwyneth wishes he were there. Quickly she chides herself, she's a grown woman, she can handle her own night-terrors. Outside the wagon there are noises of the camp the knights have set up for the night. Their party made good time, four days out from Denerim, and Lothering was just a day away.

Gwyneth needs a drink, a heavy one, but she supposes she'll settle for some water. Looking around her, she digs for her boots. On the road like this, both herself and the king have taken to wearing traveling breeches and long tunics, even while sleeping, their armor and boots the only things removed for rest. It's almost like being back amongst that group of misfits, traveling as Grey Wardens, but only _almost_. They never traveled like this, back then it had been battered tents, hard ground, and long walks. No horses, or wagons, or friendly arls to send them supplies. The only arl on their side during those six months, had been laying in a bed poisoned for most of them. There had been no one there to call either of them 'Highness' unless it was in jest. No, the two Wardens of Ferelden certainly hadn't traveled like _this_. What time they would've made if they had though, but of course a much higher risk of being caught by Loghain's hired lickspittles, and just by sheer ratio, some of them would've been successful.

The Queen of Ferelden drags herself from the solitude of the covered wagon, almost tripping over the ridge as she steps onto the rocky soil. For a moment her eyes adjust to the new light, coming from an inviting orange fire. The knights are eating their breakfast, for it must surely be _well_ after midnight, as a faint line of light blue is teasing towards the east. It's likely a good meal, fresh goods delivered by messengers from the South Reach arling, when their party passed it two days ago.

Noble was seated beside Ser William, his talent at finding someone he could sucker with those big brown puppy dog eyes was as great as it always had been. The Mabari was licking his chops as the knight gave him bits of his own food, stubby tail thumping happily against the ground.

Chatter amongst the knights quieted as they noticed their sovereign, Ser Mhairi smiled at her. "Are you hungry, Majesty?"

"No, thank you, however was there not a stream around here?"

"Ah, yes, on the west side of the camp, past that line of trees. You and His Highness are of like mind, he headed there, oh, perhaps half an hour ago. His Majesty refused any guards." Ser William has a look in his eyes that's slightly amused but he doesn't crack a grin, not wanting to earn the queen's ire. He knows how women are when they first get up.

"You're right, we _are_ of like mind then, because I don't require anyone to guard me either. I just want a drink, and I'd rather have fresh water. Hand me one of those cups there, unused if you please." Gwyneth rubs her index finger across the tip of her nose, a gesture long used by ladies of privilege when they have a distasteful thought.

Noble cocks his head at her, completely unabashed at his gluttony, and he turns back to his 'servant' feeding him tasty bits of meat. The queen almost laughs, knowing where she sits in her Mabari's affection: somewhere just below food.

With cup in hand, the queen made her way to the west side of the camp, creeping dawn and the fire at her back. As she gains some fresh air and perspective with it, it's easier to dismiss her dream as exactly that. She is no Andraste, she does not see visions, and the idea of the soul of the arch-demon remembering the events at Fort Drakon, surviving into the flesh of an Old God and becoming a man that could visit her and enchant her in her sleeping mind, is so ridiculous it cannot be truth. A deep breath is drawn in as she holds her head high. '_Yes, just a dream, a _crazy_ dream_.'

* * *

They'd found Leliana amongst the rabble in Lothering, the strange sight of a lay sister with two daggers was startling enough. When she'd spoken of why she had wanted to join them, that was stranger yet. Still when Gwyneth refused her, thinking her a nut case, it had been Alistair that convinced her otherwise. _Sure, the girl was weird, no doubt, but not psychopath material, and they needed some assistance, especially when said assistance admitted a talent at lock-picking, something their group of four lacked. Unless Mabari could pick locks with their doggy-claws. _It had been one of the few times that Alistair could recall convincing the stubborn Gwyneth of anything, and back in those early days she had disliked him immensely, but she listened.

He remembered the look from one of the drunk refugees outside the tavern, smirking and throwing the blonde Grey Warden a salacious grin. _Three gorgeous women, and one man, equals one lucky man._ The grin had said, but the man clearly didn't know that of the three females, one was a pissy black mage who made no bones about the fact that she could light people on fire with a thought. Another was a stuck up noble who hated anyone that looked at her wrong, and the third was possibly prone to hallucinations involving The Maker. _Oh yeah, he was 'real' lucky._

Now, one of them was somewhere out there, pregnant with an Old God he fathered, which despite that fact that he tried to put it from his mind, was still a catastrophe waiting to happen. Another was his wife and his queen of an arranged marriage, where each day the friendship that proceeded their union was harder and harder to hold onto. The last was lost to him, having taken his heart with her, and gone back to Orlais where he'd likely never see her again. '_What a life'. _Alistair sighed, skipping a stone across the stream, swollen with run-off from the Dragon Peaks and the Drakon River that fed it. So close to Lothering, where he had met _her_, and his thoughts couldn't help but go in that direction.

She'd been such a firm believer in the peace of the chantry, and he had nothing but ill memories of the one he'd been in. The priestesses had saved her, she'd said, while Alistair's time with them was nothing short of suffocating. Somehow, through all that, he'd come to care for Leliana. So different and yet alike. He knew he was boyish, no one needed to tell him that, and Leliana was delightfully girlish. A deadly shot with a bow, and no joke with her daggers, but back in camp there was always something fragile and beautiful about her, like a rose. Brown eyes closed on the memory.

_Lothering was like a sad painting, an encroaching shadow coming towards it as a monster creeping from the closet of a child's nightmare. There was sadness and despair in that place, in the faces of those that had no hope in them. Alistair couldn't give them any, for he had little of it himself, and certainly none to spare. The thought made him ill, but there was naught else to be done. When he saw the roses, he paused, the other Grey Warden fallen into her role as leader quite easily as she was finagling for some wares from a crabby merchant. The sole-surviving Theirin didn't want to hear the snotty words of the pompous lady that he reluctantly called his sister at arms. "Flowers, churl? Oh, what a marvelously feminine man you are." Followed, likely ,by that laughter that so grated on his nerves, because it was both pretty and callous, and anything mean spirited shouldn't sound so nice._

_When he was sure no one was looking, he picked one of the scarlet roses. Though self-conscious embarrassment colored his cheeks, he wrapped the delicate bloom lovingly into a dirty handkerchief and tucked it into the space left between his tunic and his armor. Alistair knew it would be flattened though, but he could dry it, save it from the darkspawn that would come. Because he could, because that rose was something that was in his power to never leave behind. A well favored thing of beauty, that grew in the face of darkness._

There is the murmur of his knights from the camp not far away towards the east, the young king can still see the orange glow of the fire through the trees. Watery pale blue light is peeking between the branches, wishing a good morning with the sun that will rise within the hour. The king sighs, weary, putting his bare feet back in the cold water as a way of sobering himself. His breeches are bunched up just below his knees, as the blonde was lain back against the long grass of the creek-side, palms flat against the ground as his arms held him up. Brown eyes were covered with heavy lids as memories flooded there in the darkness. How Leliana smiled when he gave her the rose, pressing it safely between one of her beloved song books. How later he had his first night with a woman, and it had been nothing like he had imagined, and yet everything he dreamed. How the bard smelled of Andraste's Grace. Now, everything seemed to carry the fragrance of lilacs.

"Really, Alistair, isn't the water a _tad_ cold to be dipping your toes?" Gwyneth raises a dark red brow as she takes in the king, propped up with his arms and feet stuck in the creek.

"G-Gwyn?" He stutters in surprise, quickly trying to stand, only to tumble back down into the grass, wet feet slipping on the already dewy blades.

"For goodness sake, there's no need to have such a fit! I just wanted some fresh water." She waves the empty earthenware cup at him before kneeling down beside the creek, and he notes that it's farther upstream, where she might imagine he hadn't been dunking his feet. "With the sun starting to peek, it must be somewhere in the realm of the fifth hour, and you were tossing and turning _all night_. I should know, you woke me up several times with your fidgeting. It was like sleeping with a wriggling worm. You couldn't have possibly gotten a good night's rest, so what are you doing up so _early_?"

"Someone might ask _you _the same thing, dear lady." He smirks up at her, relaxing back down and closing his eyes to the sound of flowing water and his wife's voice.

"I . . . had a nightmare." Gwyneth paused, the cool creek running over her hand as she dunked her cup, eyes locked on some distant place of dream and shadow. '_We are not so different, you and I.' _He belonged to the dark, but his voice, burning with the fire of arousal along her nerve endings, promising wicked sins of the flesh and evil thoughts that followed, bright and hot like dragon flames. "Nothing serious really, and with Ostagar waiting for us, I guess it's only natural." The queen shrugged, forcing the note of fear from her voice. She raised the cup, and took a long drink, the cold water hitting the back of her throat, and traveling down where it sat in her belly. Gwyneth made an '_ahh!_' noise of satisfaction, before crossing her legs to sit down on the grass next to Alistair. "So, you never answered my question, why are _you_ out here, _dear lord_?" One corner of her full mouth curled up, as she turned the endearment he gave to her back on him.

"We'll be in Lothering tomorrow, and I couldn't help but think of . . ." Sheepishly, Alistair lowered his gaze. _She's_ still there, in his mind, light red hair cut just above her shoulders, blue eyes like crystals. Much like the rose, she too was discovered in Lothering, and much like the rose was a rare thing of beauty, found in a place of despair.

"Leliana?" Gwyneth watched him closely. He didn't say anything, only nodded, but words weren't needed to confirm his wife's suspicions, she'd been with him. From the moment when that romance had begun, past its realization and she was the one that stayed when Alistair let Leliana leave, while Gwyneth married him instead.

The queen felt an angry biting twinge in her gut, and was even more upset to realize it was jealousy. _'This is ridiculous! You knew what you were getting into, and you wouldn't have Alistair on a wager! What's the matter with you?' _Gwyneth began to play with her long ringlets, fingers plucking at them where the ends of her cinnamon locks were lain against her chest, a nervous habit left over from her child hood. _How many men had wanted her, and here she was, stuck with someone who didn't want her at all and instead thought about a peasant bard_. Despite the fact that Gwyneth had come to have an appreciation for Leliana, there was still that old sense of superiority, and a new jealousy, that she, born of high blood, was playing second fiddle to a _commoner_. Talented rogue and archer or no, common Leliana still was, and she _still_ had possession of Alistair's heart. No matter how long the new king was married to Gwyn, it would always be that way. _'Am I any better?'_ Her dreams and memories of Calian, her unfulfilled and unrequited longing for Morrigan, her horrible, terrible arousal for an evil entity in her dreams. All of those things said no, that she was _not_ better than the man sitting beside her, waiting warily for what she would say.

At the end of that line of thinking, all Gwyneth said was, "Well, that's understandable."

This was suppose to be a trip to learn more of the darkspawn threat, to put an end to a large source of said threat, with the secret desire to escape from the pressures of a changing life. _Was it so, then, that the king couldn't help but feel that trying to capture a life that was no more, was in folly? _Alistair sighed, his heart heavy and his mind disquiet with haunted memories of the past.

He was raised up with the belief that his parentage meant little, that his life held no promise of anything more than a serf's existence. As the bastard son of a serving wench, there would be nothing for him beyond service to his betters, as a templar there would be only duty to the Maker, as a Grey Warden, death would claim him sooner than most. He was to have no wife, no children, certainly no title beyond Warden. Greatness was beyond his reach, he'd been told, but fate had other plans. At least his time as a Warden had offered him honor that was his own, but now even that seemed dimmed in the face of what had become his destiny. The former templar couldn't escape the blood and the legacy of his father, in the end, despite everything he had believed when he was younger.

So here he was, a crown that was now his, and a bride from one of the oldest and highest ranking families of the country. Soon there'd be a call for an heir, a son of the blood, to seal the legacy of the Theirin line for Ferelden. Not a child born of love between man and wife, but of duty, of necessity, and Alistair didn't think even _that_ was possible, not with Gwyneth. He'd been putting off the thought, but he knew that someday it couldn't be set aside any longer. The king wonders sometimes if he shouldn't have had Leliana stay with him, it was common for sovereigns to have mistresses after all, but every time he thought it over, he came to the same conclusion. _Never_ would Alistair let the woman he loved be cowed under with the knowledge that no matter how much they felt for one another, he would always belong to someone else. _Never_ would he have allowed Leliana to remain in a place where cruel gossip would've surely torn them both apart. _Fate_ was his mistress _now_.

Gwyneth turned her face in his direction to offer a small smile, and he smiled back, neither with an abundance of mirth.

* * *

The following day saw the king's retinue draw their wagons into the boundaries of Lothering, the ruined settlement before them. Both buildings where rebuilding had not yet begun, and those where it had been paused because of the darkspawn, and the creatures hunt for food supplies; the settlers that were trying to make their life anew. Alistair felt a queasy sensation within his innards and put a hand against his armored torso.

"Something wrong, Highness?" Ser Mhairi was beside him as they made a quick survey of the encampment.

Alistair sent a reassuring grin to the female knight beside him. "No, no, Ser Mhairi, simply thinking."

Lord Lothian was a far bit older than the king had expected, but no less enthusiastic, and he had his wits about him, to be sure. He struck the sovereign as a very austere man, though it was certain that these times did little to inspire levity and perhaps it _was_ indeed austerity that was required. As the acting commander of what little army he had left, the encampment was set up as solidly as it could be.

A simplistic barbican ran a perimeter on the southern edge of Lothering, high towers of wood standing for the scouts at the ends of the walkway. It appeared that Lothian's soldiers had taken chunks of the ruined and ancient Imperial Highway and used the stone to help with the construction of the emergency fortifications. It was fitting, considering the name 'barbican' was taken from the Old Tevalian word 'barbecana' Two counter-weight trebuchets were on the ground before them, with piles of stone chunks that the king assumed must have also come from the crumbling highway. He'd seen those siege-like weapons before, along with ballistas. The trebuchets functioned very much like catapults, throwing whatever one placed in the large and deep metal bowl, at great speed, crushing the enemy.

On the periphery of all this, were wooden barricades, sharpened spears against the tops, facing towards the south. They reminded Alistair all too clearly of what the 'spawn did with such barricades. The rotten corpses that were left on them, and in the king's mind, he could still hear the buzzing of flies and the cawing of scavenger birds, drawn in by the smell of death. He shook his head, gathering his senses.

None of the structures that had been there the last time Alistair stood in this spot, were whole anymore. Of the chantry, only the iron cross of the Maker could be identified, caked with mud, it was lain against one of the palisades, the bottom stuck into the ground to keep it upright. The king sighed, thoughts heavy with all that had been lost here, that had yet to be regained. It was maddening to think that even with the arch-demon dead the darkspawn had a nasty refusal to be killed off or pushed back.

Lord Lothian had both arms behind his back, walking with the king and his current knight-escort. "I've had my men breaking apart the old Imperial Highway, using the stone to launch with the trebuchets, of course as luck would have it, now the Maker-damned darkspawn only send out _smaller_ parties to pick at us one by one. If I didn't think otherwise, I might suspect they were testing us, trying to find our weaknesses. The attacks seem almost half-hearted lately. You aren't going to find me complaining though Sire, not when it's given us a break to regroup, though it does make me nervous . . ." Lord Lothian trailed off, scratching at the thin white beard on his face, dark blue irises holding the wealth of his acquired knowledge.

Ser Mhairi was called away by the queen, leaving the two men to talk. The elder lord raised his brow at that but said nothing. He thought it odd, and perhaps inappropriate for Queen Gwyneth to be there in Lothering. Though he'd heard plenty of rumors about the woman, she was _still_ a woman, and _still_ a queen, former Grey Warden or no. The minute encampment was no place for her, in Lord Lothian's opinion, but it was the business of the sovereigns themselves, he supposed, just as it was their business to accept a woman in the ranks of the Knights of Denerim.

"Are you certain they come from Ostagar?" Alistair narrowed his eyes towards the south, where the ruins lay in wait.

"Quite, My King. I've had some scouts there, and we have lost many, but the few that returned confirmed it." The lord glanced about him at what remained of his men, a sad cast to his eyes.

"_How _few?" Alistair had a hand against his forehead, mind stewing with the fever of worry, and guilt that he had not come sooner. That these men were left alone to defend against the darkspawn, while _he_ sat in the palace and _talked_ about it.

"Highness, with due respect, I don't think we should focus on . . ."

"_How few_?" Fingers nearly reached for the lord beside him, in the king's anger.

"A week in passing I sent out a dozen men, two returned to me. Though I assure you, Sire, that their reports _were_ steadfast."

"Two." A smile that was both melancholic and vexed, made angry curls at the corners of King Alistair's mouth. With a wearied sigh he nodded at Lord Lothian. "Allow my knights to distribute the goods we brought from Arl Bryland and give me a moment to collect my thoughts on the matter. Then we shall formulate a plan for tomorrow."

Lord Lothian bowed, his fine chainmail clinking when he did so. "As His Majesty commands, so am I his humble servant."

The air in Lothering felt stale with pervasive doom, as if the land beneath Alistair's feet, could itself open up and swallow him into a nest of darkspawn. As he watched Lord Lothian move away he shuddered at the thought. Though oddly, he had not felt the presence of any darkspawn since the death of the archdemon. If Gwyneth had felt them, she hadn't said. That must mean they were far enough off that the call in a Grey Warden's blood wouldn't be active.

As the king passed through what remained of the settlement, and the fortifications made, he spotted a ruined garden. It might have been the very same garden, on which the edges he had found the rose bush, and plucked a bloom. All the flora was deadened, little more than sticks left of the bushes and what small flowers there had been were trampled into the ground. Alistair felt deep sadness at the thought. He had confidence that Ferelden, and Lothering, would know peace from the darkspawn, it was a confidence on which he based his own sense of honor. As king, he would not rest until it was so. However, even when Lothering found its days of peace again, rebuilt and grew anew what was lost, there were some things that could not be replaced. Another rose bush would grow, but it would not be the same one. The old one was dead and gone, never to return.

The queen caught the king's eye, as she was speaking with Ser Mhairi. Gwyneth looked up, perhaps feeling that she was being watched, and nodded her head briefly in Alistair's direction. He sent her a short salute in return.

_Then again, maybe new growth was not _always_ so awful a thing_.


	15. Chapter 15: Pain and Misery

**Disclaimer:** _"Dragon Age: Origins" and all its expansions and additional content is the property of Bioware and EA Games. Large portions of written content within the game, as well as Dragon's Age: The Stolen Throne, and Dragon's Age: Calling, are the creation of David Gaider. Original scenarios and characters are used under the creative license of the writer, ItalianEmpress1985. No profit is being made and the following story is for entertainment purposes only._

* * *

**Words From The Author**_**:**__ The content in this chapter is changed from the game content for Return to Ostagar. The key points remain, but going into it, it was obvious that I couldn't take the same approach as would've been there during game play, including some dialogue choices, and while the game has folks in just their underoos, that doesn't really __work for__ a realist's approach in a story. Thusly, thar be clothes under them armors! Yar! :p_

_I tried to limit detailed, lengthy combat, because I know that can get tedious when it goes on for too long, though of course with this kind of chapter, combat is naturally going to be a part of it._

_This is an issue not necessarily in this chapter alone, but I wanted to make a mention of monikers. Highness is used for sovereigns as well as princes and princesses, along with Majesty, Sire, and milord. My Lord is not used for sovereigns, and neither is Grace (My, Our etc) Though Gwyn may still refer to the king as My Lord Husband, and vice versa. Queen and king are capitalized only when in use as a spoken/given title. Whatever other uses other writers have, DA or beyond, I wanted to make mine clear to avoid any arguments farther down the road. And now that THAT is out of the way . . ._

_DEFINITELY rated 'M' this one, especially the end, even if the story wasn't already. This chapter also runs a bit longer than the others._

_Thank you for stopping in. Watch out for low flying dragons!_

* * *

_**Chapter Fifteen:**_

_**Pain and Misery**_

* * *

_Pain and misery always hit the spot._

_Knowing you can't lose what you haven't got._

- _Depeche Mode_

* * *

May 18'th, 9:31 Dragon Age

**J**ust a short rest and the following day had seen them clearing the rise of the hills where the king's retinue would travel onto what was left of the Imperial Highway, where the old stone path would lead them to the upper tiers of Ostagar. The ancient gray Tower of Ishal was visible in the distance and King Alistair repressed a shudder. He'd nearly died there. Presently he ran a hand across his golden armor, where it covered a heart that was nearly pierced that awful night. "I'm not sensing any darkspawn." A blonde brow raised over his left eye, proof of his perplexity.

"Neither am I." Instead of sounding relieved, Queen Gwyneth sounded worried. The darkspawn weren't likely to have fled the area so soon, and their group was close enough that the two Grey Wardens in the party should be feeling the creatures' presence. That they were not was cause for concern.

The king and queen exchanged glances, both wondering if their fight with the archdemon hadn't screwed them up somehow. Never had a Warden survived such a final battle, where 'final' meant 'final'. The sovereigns knew what had happened to allow that kind of victory, though they hadn't spoken about it in over a month. Dark magic of that sort was uncertain, especially concerning any nasty aftereffects. Gwyneth was reminded starkly of her nightmares involving the archdemon and its new form and she grimaced.

Alistair noticed and mistook the expression for something else, nodding his head in agreement. "Yes, I know. I thought there'd be a weight lifted in coming back here too, but instead I feel almost . . . _old_."

"We are all that will be left, when Wynne leaves us to go to Cumberland. It was us three that were here before, we didn't take . . . others, into our group until after the battle." The queen glanced around at the Knights of Denerim and Lord Lothian's men, wary of mentioning Morrigan's name around them, though none of them had cause to know all that the marsh witch was or had done with and for the sovereigns. "I suppose it's like revisiting a time when you and I knew not the path before us, when we were younger, body and mind. We've changed since then, haven't we?"

Alistair reached across the space between them and took the queen's right hand where it was at her reins. He smiled sadly. "Yes, we have." There was an ever-widening breech between himself and the distancing friend he had married, but _that_ gap was not closed so easily. The king frowned when Gwyneth slipped her gloved fingers away from his, to once again take up her reins, offering him only a short nod of recognition.

There always seemed to be a brusque wind around the ruins, as if nature herself was trying to bring those great stones tumbling down onto the earth upon which they were sat. Now it howled around the king's retinue as they glanced up the worn construct of the ancient highway that would lead them to their destination. The horses whinnied, as if fearful of ghosts on the path and the riding beasts weren't the only ones perturbed. Noble had taken to howling, until his mistress quieted him, but his whimpers could still be heard, even after Gwyneth had gotten down from her mount a few times to hug the mabari.

The worn stone underfoot seemed to echo with their passage, the haunted noise consumed the king and when the darkspawn finally came he was surprised. He had not felt their approach and when the first attacks began he _still_ couldn't feel them. Alistair's only advantage with the monsters was that he knew how best to fight them, but he was no more aware of their presence beyond sight and sound, than the knights around him. '_What in the Black City is going on here?'_

Gwyneth had leapt from her horse, drawing a sharp breath through her teeth when one knee gave out and she crashed down on it. Even with a snarling darkspawn right before her, that humming sensation a Warden got from the creature's presence was absent and she fought on equal ground as the knights and men-at-arms. Perplexed, but with no time to think, she simply did what she did best, protected herself. That old adrenaline came back, and it was with a vicious smile on her face, that the Thorns of Dead Gods sliced into their first taste of darkspawn flesh in well over a month.

The attack had not lasted long, but it signaled that they were entering the periphery of the fortress' horde. One of the soldiers knelt down to examine his kill, his voice calling to the king. "Sire! You've dealt with these buggers before, tell me, Highness do they always look so _rotten_?"

Upon close inspection, King Alistair shook his head, sharing a glance with the queen behind him. The hurlock appeared dead and decomposing, a state which it'd clearly been in before the short battle just now. Rotten chunks of flesh hung from the bone of its face, bits of it visible through the tears in the stinking skin. The eye sockets were empty, a putrid line of gray rimming the black holes. "No, they were never like _this_. It almost looks like it's been dead for at least a month." He walked over to a genlock emissary and encountered the same decomposing appearance. "This one too, Maker, are _all_ of them like this? But how can that be when we _just_ fought them?"

"Reanimation? We've encountered undead before." Gwyn wiped her blades off, scraping the black flesh from them against the edges of the stone highway.

"Yes, but undead _darkspawn_? The last time I checked, the 'spawn didn't work with humanoids, not even blood mages. They were either eaten, strung up for show or changed into one of those . . . things, we encountered in the Deep Roads." The king gave a shudder of revulsion at the memory of the hideous broodmother.

"It was demonic necromancy at work in _Redcliffe_, not mortal blood magic. Not that there were darkspawn there of course, but maybe it's a demon _here_ too. I would believe that 'spawn might work together with demonic entities, considering their late 'boss' _was_ one. It would explain why the attacks on Lothering grew fewer as of late, they were too busy reanimating the ranks. It also explains why it seemed that the horde here was too large to defeat, it wasn't that sheer size made up for the darkspawn that were killed, it was that they kept being brought back to life." Gwyneth offered.

"I don't know, I wouldn't want to make any guesses until we investigate further." Around him, the king felt his knights shift uncomfortably at talk of demons and he sent Gwyneth a stern look. She was an excellent politician, but not always so great on subtly during other occasions.

Their brief conversation ended as they made haste to the ruins themselves, whose old stones waited and whispered for those that had escaped.

* * *

Gwyneth was leaning into what had once been the statue of some warrior from decades long past, and now only the legs remained. She'd paused to catch her breath, the numbers of the darkspawn in Ostagar had staggered her, even with the likely idea that they were being raised from the dead. The queen just hadn't expected so many, and yet she still could not feel their presence upon her nerve endings, as she once had, that as a Grey Warden she yet should. Silver eyes passed to the king, speaking with his knights as scouts wandered the perimeter where Loghain and Cailan had once camped, looking down into the hazy field below them.

A fog had rolled in from the Wilds, which was not all that unusual. The deep, chilled forests of Kocari seemed to be perpetually hidden in cloying mist. Some of it had wound its way up the old stone, obscuring the long bridge that their group had yet to cross. Dark shapes, blurry and unable to make out, were but hidden outlines across that stretch of broken stone. Noble had made a few attempts to go near the bridge, but Gwyneth kept calling him back, and he now sat at his mistress' side, her hand lazily patting his head between his ears.

The king had finished with his knights and was making long strides over to the queen. His eyes traveled to the bridge. "The scouts can't see anything on the fields, on account of all this _blasted_ fog. We'll have to look for a way to the lower parapets once we're across to the other side. There's nothing over here unless we take the pathway from the old battle camp, but that will lead us directly onto the field, and I don't wish to do that unless we have an idea of what the situation is down there."

Gwyneth nodded. "That seems a wise course." She rubbed her arms, wrapping her cloak tighter around her, as Noble huddled at her ankles. He whined and glanced up at the redhead, dark brown eyes wide on his mistress's face. "It's alright my baby, we'll get all these nasty darkspawn, and whatever is resurrecting them, and make the southern lands safe again. For a time, at least. Wouldn't you like that?"

Noble barked, stubby tail whipping back and forth happily.

Alistair shook his head in humor.

"What?" Gwyn raised a brow at him, suspicious.

"The way you talk to him, like he's a person."

"He _is_ a person, aren't you, my baby?"

Another bark.

"Forget I said anything." Alistair smirked as he waved his men over for the cautious approach to the bridge.

Memories came crashing down upon the king, the moment he turned to face that long stretch of stone. _The battle at its start, heat from catapult fire flaring around himself, Noble and Gwyneth, the last of whom was quite obviously afraid. Gwyn was shaking, eyes widening on the scene before her, feet seemingly stuck to the small stairs that would mark the beginning of their trek. Alistair dared to touch her shoulder and when she looked up at him, he offered the tiniest smile of encouragement. 'You can do this.' That smile said, and she did, putting one foot before the other, her loyal mabari beside her every step of the way._

"Ladies first then?" Her voice called him from the past as he turned and looked at her.

"No, I think we'd better send the scouts on ahead of us. Ser William, lead us, if you would." The king motioned to his favored knight, and their trek was begun.

Fog parted before their passage, as the crest of water would part before a small ship, slowly but steadily, banking around them to envelop the group in its milky white embrace. They watched warily for the edges of the bridge, where crumbling stone could seal their doom. The cobbles were littered with debris and skeletal remains, and through the mist came the sight of a large ballista, long unused and decrepit, like an ancient beast who's ire was lost to eternal slumber. Noble's nails made a 'click click' noise as the mabari moved as carefully as his mistress, the faint noise matched only with the slight chinking of armor and squeak of leather.

A gale of wind came up, chilling Gwyneth to the bone with its dampness, and she tightened her cloak around her once more. The fog bank before their group parted enough to show one of the eerie effigies the darkspawn liked to erect. A skeleton, male from the size and shape, was skewered onto it, broken spears holding the remains in place. A ragged shirt that once was white, now coated with old blood, fluttered in the wind like a flag of surrender, the breeches that might have been of fine leather, now in little better condition.

The man's hair had been long and likely blonde, though time had discolored it to a pallid grey, but the braids at either side remained. Gwyneth stopped, as did the entire retinue, to look on the ghastly sight. That some darkspawn would drag this poor soul up here and stick him to one of their statues as a macabre sign of victory, the queen would never understand that behavior. It frightened her, because she could no longer accept that darkspawn were mindless, only that their minds were monstrous things, sickly and diseased with the plague that was evil.

Through the remnants of the white shirt, she caught a glimpse of shining gold, and as she stepped closer it was revealed to be an amulet. The darkspawn must've either not wanted it or not seen it, if it was worn beneath the man's shirt. As if he wanted it close to him, but didn't want anyone to see it. Nearer still and the queen recognizes it.

_Cailan takes it from her, the lady's hands soft to the touch. Unwrapping the linen, he finds an amulet, the golden dragon shines in the moonlight, revealing the sapphire caught in its grand jaws._

"_I saw it amongst the new goods being brought in from Tevinter and I thought 'This is so suited to my Cailan'." There is a smile in the red-head's voice, nothing but the crinkling of her gown disturbing the silence._

"_Your Cailan is it? Then I will have to call you my Gwyneth." The look of happiness between them is intense. Finally her silver eyes slide away from his and she lays back, tracing patterns in the stars with a bejeweled finger, whatever was on the verge of becoming reality for the pair, pushed aside again. Saved for later. "Thank you, this is a lovely gift. I shall wear it for luck, always." He will hide it from view beneath his fine shirts or golden armor, but wear it he will._

"For luck. Always." Gwyneth says into the silence, her throat stiff, and suddenly, the grief is there. Biting, tearing and painful. The loss she hadn't let herself feel since that long past morning at Flemeth's hut, and it returns with vengeance. Hot tears slide down her cheeks as she lets loose with a heart breaking wail, catching the attention of the soldiers and her husband.

"Gwyn?" Alistair's brown eyes are dark with confusion.

"Get him down! It's King Cailan! We have to get him down from there!" Manic, the queen moves to the grotesque structure, climbing on it to tear it apart. The dried ichor that the darkspawn use breaks into her hands, stinking of decay, and she continues. In the back of Gwyneth's mind she can hear them calling for her.

"Highness!"

"Get down, Gwyn! You'll get hurt!"

But she also hears them not, the only voice she longs for is there in distant memory, made clear in present pain and misery.

"_I know that you have this image of glory and victory, of making yourself a legend, but most legends became so after they were dead." Silver eyes fill with worry for him and Gwyneth realizes that apart from her mabari, this king of men might be her only friend in Thedas._

"_I'll be fine, and when I come back . . . I . . . there is something I must ask you."_

"_Why not ask me now?"_

"_I want the timing to be right, I want it to be a happy moment."_

_Suddenly she thinks she knows what the question will be, one made on bended knee and her gaze widens. "Cailan . . ."_

"_My uncle Eamon has been after me for months about finding a new queen, and I'm certain he has one in mind. A beautiful red-head that would drive any man to distraction." That damn smirk again, then his face falls. "Anora, she's a good woman, and Maker knows she has picked up my slack on more occasions than I can count, but she's cold, so very cold. I crave warmth, Gwyneth."_

Some of the knights have begun to help her, she hears Ser Mhairi's voice at the edge of her consciousness.

"Here now, Highness, let _us_ get him down, we can't have you injured!"

Alistair is telling her they can come back later, that it's too dangerous to linger, that the darkspawn will hear them. Gwyneth doesn't care.

_There on the lonely parapet, he kisses her, and it is both everything and nothing like romance novels. The backdrop would suit, but the feeling is alien and Gwyneth can feel herself start to melt against his armor, his hands finding purchase in the cinnamon wealth of her hair. Shocked, she pulls away, his eyes dark on her own._

_Alistair is drawing nearer and Cailan has to go. The urgency in his gaze is entirely too tempting. "Just . . . Just promise me that you will be careful, and when I return we'll talk more."_

_Gwyneth nods at him and he leaves, as she stands there with Kocari wind swirling around her back. The salty taste of Cailan's lips remains on hers and she places light fingertips there in wonderment. She had many kisses before, but none quite like that._

One spear, and then another. The structure wobbles precariously, but the queen continues. Ser Mhairi is holding her legs steady as she works, and Ser William is there to help once she has freed Cailan's remnants. Gwyneth drops to the ground, landing painfully on one ankle, feeling it twist beneath her.

"Highness!"

The queen waves the concerned knight off, hobbling over to Cailan's remains, where she gets down on her knees and touches his face. She's heedless of the skeletal state the body is in, as if she doesn't see it, but instead the visage that it once was.

Alistair grimaces and takes her arm. "Come now, Gwyn, you've already hurt yourself. Let's get you tended and then we have to keep going. We'll come back for him, Gwyn, I _promise_ you, we _will_ come back."

She snarls at him, holding on to Cailan's torn shirt. "No! I'm staying!" Anger turns to sadness as Alistair gazes down at her. "Please, don't make me leave him, not _again_."

The knights and soldiers look away, feeling awkward. Gwyneth for her part, doesn't seem to care that she could be causing much in the way of court gossip, reigniting old rumors of an affair with the late king.

"It's alright. _I'll_ stay with the queen, Majesty." Ser Mhairi offers a smile, and finally the king relents.

Noble remains beside Gwyneth and the king doesn't even think to call the mabari off with _him_. The war hound had always bore an insurmountable love for his mistress, and would stay with her to whatever end, unless she herself ordered him elsewhere.

"Any of the darkspawn could creep past us. You must remain on your guard, Ser Mhairi." Alistair hears the commanding tone of his own voice, feeling, like he usually does, as if it's someone else speaking. "You too, Noble." The mabari barked shortly in understanding. Gwyneth stopped looking at him entirely, and he feels a horrible lurch in his heart at the sight. Cailan was his brother, but it's Gwyneth that seems closer. He can't help but wonder _how_ close they might have been. "I don't like this, I want that known." He focuses on the queen, but _still_ she won't look at him, only nodding to show that she's heard him at all. "Gwyn, I really don't want you to remain here . . . I think . . ."

"I'm _staying_." The words are cold and final.

Alistair sighs, rubbing a gauntlet encased hand across his face. "Fine. Just . . . for Maker's sake, be _careful_."

Ser Mhairi smiles and nods in the absence of either reaction from the queen, and Alistair can't stall anymore. He spares a glance back over his shoulder at the two women and the lone mabari, before he moves off with the other knights into the fog, until their party is out of sight.

Gwyneth strokes Cailan's hair back, leaning down to kiss the brow of his skull. She's crying hard enough that she can't see much through the blur of her tears, but that sapphire set into the amulet still catches what little light there is, and the queen runs her fingers over it. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, oh Maker! We should've come back, we should've come back for you!"

Mhairi looks out to the end of the bridge, but there's nothing there and her blue gaze turns to her queen, full of sympathy and grief for the lost sovereign. He was good king, with great hope and a confidence that was contagious. She doesn't dare to presume what the relationship was between the two, only that it was friendship at the very least. "You did what you could My Majesty, I'm certain."

"_How _can you be so certain?" Gwyneth asked, not looking away from Cailan. Noble nudged her and she spared an arm for him, absently stroking his fur between his ears.

"Because, you're a good woman." Mhairi had heard the rumors, and knew what some people said of the new queen. About her conniving nature, how they said her ambition was like that of her mother, the late teyrna, and would run the country into ruin if left unchecked. To the young female knight, all she knew was that this woman had saved Ferelden from the Blight, was in the midst of bringing peace to the lands, dragging them out of the darkspawn shadow and into the light of a new age. "I can see why he loves you."

"Why _who_ loves me?"

"King Alistair of course, Your Highness, it's plain to see."

Gwyneth titled her head, humoring the woman. She and Alistair put up a good front, and it did her well to know that the façade worked on some people, even the Knights of Denerim, but the only king that had loved her was lain dead and skeletal on the cobbles beside her. Gwyn smiled through her tears, as she took off her cloak to cover Cailan with it, the damp chill of the Kocari fog lost to her heart sickness. "And _I_ love _him_." Speaking of Cailan, but knowing that Mhairi would think she was speaking of Alistair.

* * *

King Alistair stood his ground against the ogre, who's corpse had risen up before him, little more than a skeleton now, but just as dangerous. Two blades were stuck through its massive ribs as it roared, using breath given to it by the cackling necromancer, who had proven to be a darkspawn himself. Alistair had never come across that before, and was immensely displeased at the idea that this kind of situation could happen again.

The lower field lay before him, the battle ground that he had not been on that fateful night six months ago. His retinue had found the tunnels the darkspawn had used to get in the Tower of Ishal, and followed that down here, where they stood, facing off against undead darkspawn and the late king's deceased soldiers as well. The ground was littered with skeletons, some partially swallowed by time and the earth on which they lay, but they were roused from eternal rest, and now clawed their way back to standing, old weapons picked up once more.

A sickly gray light, both impossibly dark and bright in kind, lined the ogre as it roared again and made a charge. Alistair rolled to the right, the thick golden plate restricting the movement and his knights came to his defense as the ogre pawed at the ground like a bull. Another charge and that one connected with one of Lord Lothian's men, the soldier sent flying through the air to land dead on the field.

One skeleton after another was dispatched, the ogre lost to Ser William in a blur of activity but he spotted it, going after the king and the knight forced himself to disengage from the dead warrior he was fighting. "We must protect the king!"

As the necromancer whirled his twisted hands in preparation for another bought of magic, one that would rouse the recently defeated back onto their feet, Alistair concentrated on the old talents of the templars. Drawing the will from deep inside himself, he pushed it outward, barely missing a swing from the skeletal ogre. The necromancer growled, chattering madly, before his beady eyes locked on the king from under a strange-boney headdress. This time, the magic was a bolt of flame aiming straight for Alistair.

"Fuck!" Not normally once for cussing, his desperation drove him to it as he dived out of the oncoming path of the fireball. The spell work exploded, and Alistair seethed in pain as it pushed him farther way, his face scraping against the stony soil. It had hit the ogre and one of the undead darkspawn's arms fell off, but he came at the king again, heedless of the loss of his limb.

Before the ogre could do anything, two of the Knights of Denerim were on it, drawing the beast down, and bashing it with their swords. The blades bounced off the bone but finally it was on the ground, and Ser Wilhelm made the final blow, managing to break the bones in the ogre's neck until its head was gone.

"The mage! Get the mage!" Alistair shouted, already rousing from his position on the ground, head feeling woozy.

Though the little bastard had managed to use its risen emissaries to protect itself, the necromancer was now waning on power, drained by the king's templar abilities. When the soldiers of Lord Lothian and the Knights of Denerim closed in on it, the battle was at last at an end.

Alistair took a deep breath, looking at the field around him. A glint from the fallen ogre's chest caught his eye and he limped over, hurting from the necromancer's fireball, and stared down at the weapons. The likely original demise of the creature. As he drew them out, he found them to be a thin long sword and a dagger, their etchings as familiar to him as his own skin. They were Duncan's weapons. Shock overtook the king's face.

Many skeletons decorated the harsh and unfeeling ground beneath Alistair's feet, but he did not recognize Duncan's armor on any of them. As those brown eyes drew down, covered by lids heavy with guilt and grief, Alistair realized that the darkspawn had probably eaten Duncan. To them, Grey Warden meat must be a sort of delicacy. Feeling intensely nauseated, the blonde dropped to his knees, Duncan's blades in his hands as his own was sheathed at his back.

Ser William went to him, worried, but Alistair could only nod, and the men said nothing as he let his grief swallow him. He thought he was over it by now, but he had been wrong.

Duncan's rugged face, and lopsided smile, the way he had always encouraged the young Warden, even the few times that he teased Alistair. The elder Grey Warden had understood, he knew how Alistair felt, how desperately he needed to be away from that damned chantry house and the heavy thumb of the reverend mother there. Duncan had taught him how to be a man, when all he'd known of it before were bits and pieces picked up by unfriendly initiates at the chantry, and the scant knowledge collected from Redcliffe.

When he felt the first stinging tears running down his face and into his goatee, he knew he didn't cry for merely a friend, or a mentor, but for father, who had died before it was time.

In the end they had lost four of Lord Lothian's men and one of the Knights of Denerim, and yet it was a victory. With the necromancer dead, Ostagar would no longer be the playground to a host of darkspawn, and King Alistair intended to place a permanent watch there to ensure nothing came through the tunnels in the Tower of Ishal. Especially once men arrived with enough dwarven explosives to cave it in.

They had found every piece of the golden armor King Cailan had once donned, a battered twin to the set Alistair now had. With the very first piece, the new sovereign thought it felt wrong to just leave it, thick with the darkspawn's rot, and so they had collected the pieces. It was set on the funeral pyre, surrounding its fallen owner as he burned.

Gwyneth watched silently, bereft of any more tears, but her grief was plain to see and she was grateful that Ser Mhairi and the men had ducked their heads, not watching too closely. Fingers absently stroked across the amulet that now hung around her neck, for she just couldn't bring herself to leave it behind., even if it was obvious that there was nothing lucky about it.

Nothing but the crackling of the fire and who was burning on it, broke the silence, with the wind having died down. The flames had cleared the mist from that area, and Gwyneth was able to look out some distance if she chose, but instead her eyes never left Cailan, though they didn't see him, but instead days long since gone. Loved ones lost, innocents abandoned and slain and the queen didn't know when it would end, or if it even would.

_It was a mistake, for the both of them to come here_. Alistair and Gwyneth had helped to rid the fortress of its darkspawn infestation, but instead of closure for themselves, the pair of them had succeeded only in resurrecting old ghosts, the hurt and loss returning in kind.

The king was just as silent as his queen, his own mind heavy with grieving, though he did so within the solitude of his mind.

When it was done, and Cailan's ashes sent to the winds, their retinue set to make camp. Though no one particularly wanted to, it was already nearing sunset and there was little other choice. The trek down the Imperial Highway, to a more preferred resting place, would take too long and it was intensely difficult to set up a camp in the dark.

Someone had found King Cailan's chest, but with no key to open it, it was to be taken back to Denerim where a locksmith could work on it. Alistair went by the decorated trunk with a passing glance, though little more, walking toward his mount. He wrapped Duncan's blade up in cloth and tied them to the baggage sacks the stallion carried, though the black horse itself was resting without the added weight of its passenger and his gear.

After her ankle had been mended, Gwyneth had gone off somewhere, notably without Noble, whom was left in the care of Ser William. Though he didn't relish the idea, Alistair knew he should go find her and speak with her about the day's events. So little had been said earlier, because in misery it seemed that the tongue wasn't so wont to wag.

* * *

The queen only carried a small torch, and she stuffed it between two broken slabs of rock as she stepped gingerly out onto the sparse outcropping. It had likely been a balcony once, in a time so distant that Gwyneth hadn't been even a twinkle in her father's eyes. It was that same parapet where Cailan had kissed her the day before the battle that took his life, and it was not by accident that she found herself there again, silver eyes looking out at the mountains, limned with dark blue light in the dusk.

With the wind all but gone, there was little sound to deflect her thoughts, but the faint spluttering of the torch, and a distant animal down in the Kocari Wilds. She closed her eyes, her fingers finding the amulet once again. Gwyneth thought back on all her memories of him, from their first meeting, to that last moment, their eyes locking together across the strategy table. There had been no words then, with Duncan and Loghain right beside them there couldn't have been, but their gaze said everything and it was the last time she'd seen him until today.

There was the sound of boots moving over the dry grass and the red head turned about, a sharp intake of breath escaping through her lips. Gwyneth smiled, a thin relief in her, eyes lighting up. For a moment she thinks the past seven months were a terrible dream, and she's back and Cailan is there . . . but it isn't him. Happiness can never last, and this time is no different, as the fragile hopeful smile turns down, becoming a staid line that the queen has worn most of the day. "Yes?"

Alistair stopped and watched her, the young woman's coldness reminiscent of when he first met her, in this very place, though not the exact spot. Though she'd been here before, the king thinks or at least there is the sense that he's come upon Gwyneth on that same parapet before. "You should come back to the camp, there could be more darkspawn out here, and I haven't been able to feel them today."

"Neither have I, but it's merely a fluke, I'm sure. We're just . . . We are recovering from our battle against the arch-demon." Gwyn turned her face back to the Wilds, voice stiff with apathy.

"Riigghht. A fluke, yeah." He doesn't sound particularly convinced, but with little answer to the reasoning, he is forced to abandon those questions to avoid madness. Alistair finds it difficult to talk to the queen's back, but she leaves him with little choice. "Look, I saw the way you were with King Cailan's bod . . . with him, on the bridge and I thought . . ."

"You thought _what_? That I'd wish to talk? Pour my heart out to you, perhaps?" Gwyneth folded her arms across her chest and leaned into the pillar once more. "Well, I don't. I assumed that my coming out here for some _solitude,_ was a clear indication of my _lack _of wish for company."

The king opened his mouth, the need to shout at her and tell she's a pissy little bitch, right there on the tip of his tongue. However, he realises that it's what she wants, to get him mad so he'll leave. "No, no that's not going to work, Gwyn. The whole "I'll just act cold until you go sod off!' routine isn't going to be successful, not tonight at least."

She sighs, heavily and irritated. "_What _do you _want_, Alistair?"

"Firstly, for you to listen before you come harping at me." He holds out a finger as if scolding a petulant child when she begins to protest. "And secondly, for you to remember we were _friends_ not too long ago."

"What makes you think I ever forgot?"

"Ever since that damned wedding, you pull away from me more and more every single day, today is the worst yet. We should be able to _talk_ to one another, but yet, here you are, _alone_."

"No, not anymore, now that _you've_ come to be bother me." Gwyn huffs.

"_Bother you_? For Maker's sake, woman, I came out here to check on you, because I wanted to talk to you. Do you even care that I found no trace of Duncan's body? At the very least, if you have no feelings for my loss, you should at least want to talk about the fact that there are darkspawn necromancers now. Or are the people next on your checklist of things not to give a fig about?" Alistair hasn't walked any closer but he doesn't need to, because suddenly she's up in his face, finger jabbing him in the chest. He becomes quite aware of the fact that neither of them are wearing any armor, and they are alone with just their weapons. So much for safety.

"The people? The _people_? I'm the bloody Queen of Ferelden for the good of 'the people' I have been stuck with a husband that doesn't want me, and never will, for 'the people'! Don't you _dare_ try to question my loyalty to this land and its children!" Gwyn's eyes are burning hot in anger, her voice raised and brittle. "I'm allowed this, this one day of grief, for a man that would've married me and _loved_ me." The words are out before she realizes what she is saying, and the queen clamps a hand over her wayward mouth. Her defensive anger bleeds out and is replaced rapidly with the weight of the day, the loss and grief with it.

Alistair stiffens in front of her, shoulders rigid and gaze wide. "I heard the rumors, everyone has by now, but you told me you were a maiden and I thought they weren't true . . . But they _were_? I married my dead half-brother's mistress?"

"No! No, no, no, it wasn't like that!" She's panicked now and takes a hold of his arm. "We were friends, just friends and then, I don't know! There was just this . . . undefined emotion between us and your uncle and my parents were apparently setting it all up, even after I had given up on my own desire for it. I guess Cailan finally gave in, because he spoke to me before the battle and it seemed like . . . Things were not going well between Anora and he, and I think he was going to ask me to marry him." Gwyneth felt the need to cry, and so she did, hot tears that slid down her cheeks. "We were never together, he and I, in that way, I swear to you! I married you, untouched and whole as my mother bade me."

"But you wish you had married _him_ instead?" Alistair was unsure of what to feel at that revelation. She would've still been queen, without him, he could've stayed with Leliana and Gwyneth would have married Cailan and everyone would get what they wanted . . . And yet, a horrible twisting feeling was biting at his innards.

"Yes." Gwyn sniffed, voice raw in her grief. "Yes I do wish that . . . Don't _you_?"

The king really thought about it, how destiny had taken a hand in all this. How it had changed his life drastically from both what he wanted and what he thought he might be. He was the sovereign of a nation now. If Cailan had lived, Alistair wouldn't be the king, he wouldn't be stuck in a role he wasn't sure he could fill . . . but neither would Gwyneth be his friend. The blonde had no way of knowing that for certain, but it felt true. _What reason would the second wife of Cailan Theirin have to associate with Alistair's ilk_? With Cailan's backing, she could've abandoned her new Grey Warden title, taken up with him, and forced Anora from the crown quicker than you could say 'lamb stew'. Though Alistair didn't imagine that path would've been easier for Gwyn, she probably would've been more comfortable there.

"No, Gwyn, I _don't_ wish that." Alistair's own voice is heavy with the stinging onset of sadness. "I've lost Duncan and Leliana, the two people in this world that I loved most of all. But there is no changing things, I realized that today when I found Duncan's blades. I cried for him, I couldn't help it, but in the end, _this_ is my life. You Gwyn, and you're all I have left. You want me to say that I wish you'd gotten everything you wanted, that I did too? Maybe, but then, we wouldn't know each other, we wouldn't be friends, and I've lost enough already. _Please_ don't break away from now, I need you."

Gwyneth feels like they've had this conversation before, in a time far removed from now, when she'd be wont to think of him as little more than dirt. The queen recalls her thoughts at her wedding, a surety in her that one day Alistair will resent her, that the fragile and unlikely friendship they maintained would disintegrate because of their stress. Never once had Gwyneth imagined _she_ would be the one to begin that downward spiral. Yet, she knew he was right, she'd been pulling away, but for what reason not even the queen was sure. "I too grow weary of losing people."

Alistair's fingers find the chain of Cailan's amulet, now worn on Gwyneth's neck, and he recognizes it from earlier that day, but he puts the thought from his mind. As he pushes back all others, because he must. To stay in the past is to be unable to move on, and the king's heart can't handle any more loss, not even the memory of it. "Then let's stop, Gwyn." When he kisses his queen, it is without love or gentility, it is rough and needful. It is the physical press of his sorrow.

Gwyneth jerks back in surprise, but she quickly comes to realize what he's doing, using this to feel something _beyond_ loss, to forget the day and the death it represents. Soon, she's responding in kind and he moans against her mouth. His teeth scrape along her lips, and then to her neck, digging into the delicate skin there and she whimpers in pain, but neither of them stop. What has once begun, now must finish.

In his thoughts, Alistair remembers finding Duncan's swords stuck in that undead ogre. As he jerks Gwyneth's shirt out of her breeches, his mind watches Leliana tuck her copper hair behind one ear, to reveal the flower she's placed there. Fingers work the ties of the queen's corset, undergarments that his bard _couldn'_t wear on the road. The king tugs them sharply when they won't come undone, and the material rips.

The young queen has never done anything like this, but she's finding her pace, going only by the games she's played with the boys that came before. Cailan stares at her in distant memory, eyes intense on her face as her hands work to remove Alistair's shirt. She's got it off, and her corset is open, both of their chests bare to the cool night air. Morrigan is there behind her eyes, an uncharacteristic pity in her golden gaze, because she cannot return Gwyneth's feelings for her.

Alistair puts both of their cloaks on the ground, not pausing long enough for either of them to change their minds. He eases himself and his queen to the ground, the cool hardness of the stone easy to feel through the thin covering it now has. The edge of Gwyn's traveling breeches is obvious in the torchlight and he yanks them down roughly, mouth back at her collar bone, where the redhead's pulse beats rapidly.

Soon his own breeches are removed and the only barrier between them is the strange lacy material that barely protects Gwyneth's maidenhood. Alistair eyes it, knowing that she isn't Leliana, he cannot mistake them for they are too different. Gwyneth's legs are too long, her hips and bust too broad, her hair is too dark, her lips too thin, but the king doesn't care when he tears off the queen's last remaining undergarments.

Gwyn isn't sure what to expect, trying to distance herself from everything but the raw physicality of it, but when his hands find her pink folds, stroking at the bud at the top of them, she arches against him, crying out into the night air. As he continues, pressing her back into the unyielding stone, she whimpers and writhes under him, feeling wet heat at the apex of her thighs.

Alistair is kneeling in front of her, and he grabs her hips as he positions Gwyn where he wants her. He's almost ashamed at how aroused he is, hard and pulsing painfully. His blood is hot and pounding in his veins, and when he sinks his manhood into her, he forgets that she is virgin a few seconds too late. She screams in pain and he's forced to kiss Gwyn to silence her, feeling her shriek vibrate against his teeth. Soon he's doing the same as she digs her nails into his back, drawing blood. Gwyneth's own blood pools out beneath them, soaking through their cloaks and into the stone beneath.

There are no words, or anymore kisses. Their union may be blessed by the Maker, governed by the laws of husband and wife, but it feels almost unholy in its primal drive. Only the forceful need of distancing one another from loss and heartache, makes them continue. Lost to the sensation of finding physical fulfillment.

Gwyneth wraps her long legs tightly around Alistair's hips, ankles hooking at the small of his back. She has to hold him to keep from being driven into the stone with every hard thrust, but there's pleasure there too, finally past the sharp pain at the tearing of her maidenhead. It starts small and pulsing, somewhere inside the heated places where only Alistair has touched, but it begins to build, and soon she's raising her hips to meet his.

When the queen starts working with him, Alistair can feel the change and he moans, driving into her harder and harder. She's making noises he's never heard before, but he doesn't kiss her to silence them, because they drive him to insanity, his arousal like an uncontrollable beast and he's nearing the breaking point. The queen tightens and releases around him, as if milking his manhood and it's all he can take. When she peaks, her inner walls spasm around him, and she's moaning long and loud. He spills into her with a pleasured groan.

Their breathing is rapid as they collapse together, mindless of her blood and the fluids of their combined release quickly drying on their skin. Ostagar watches them, apathetic to both their loss and this new and untested union.


	16. Chapter 16: Companionable Solitude

**Disclaimer:** _"Dragon Age: Origins" and all its expansions and additional content is the property of Bioware and EA Games. Large portions of written content within the game, as well as Dragon's Age: The Stolen Throne, and Dragon's Age: Calling, are the creation of David Gaider. Original scenarios and characters are used under the creative license of the writer, ItalianEmpress1985. No profit is being made and the following story is for entertainment purposes only._

* * *

**Words From The Author**_**:**__ The title is meant to be an oxymoron, so don't worry, I haven't gone off my __meds__. :p_

_The country is called FereldEn, the people there are called FereldAns. The language, I use FereldISH. Minus the CAPS __LOCK__ of course. :p Just to clear up any confusion, because sometimes I get confused myself. ;)_

_A big thanks to all my readers for sticking with me, much love, and for my new reviewers, I hope you stay tuned. Also a big thanks to those of you that have added me to your favorite and alert list._

_Thank you for stopping in. Watch out for low flying dragons!_

* * *

_**Chapter Sixteen:**_

_**Companionable Solitude**_

* * *

_I hope you're not intending to be so condescending,_

_it's as much as I can take._

_You're so independent, you just refuse to bend._

_So I keep bending 'till I break._

_But you always find a way,_

_to keep me right here waiting._

_You always find the words to say,_

_to keep me right here waiting._

_- __Staind_

* * *

October 23'rd, 9:30 Dragon Age

_**A**__ chill, damp with the stink of rot and Maker knew what else, was soaking through Alistair's shirt and bandages. It made him remember that he was alive, that he survived, but the rest of them were dead. Everyone gone. The old witch had told him what happened, how she had rescued himself and the newest Warden, that all the rest at Ostagar were dead or dying, to be dragged away by the darkspawn horde. Alistair wanted to go back and look for survivors, but she warned him that to do so would be suicide. He knew she was right. _

_His grief was such that hot tears of loss fell freely, despite that he had an audience. 'Dear Maker, Duncan was GONE!' The blonde Warden wanted to wail at the sky, that sickly yellow grey hanging above him. "I-I don't understand, Loghain left the field? He just _left_? Why? Why would he do that? We could have won, we could've . . . Maker!" His face fell into his hands again, and he heard the old witch's voice, gravelly and ancient as the eerie willows and scraggly pines about them._

"_That, I cannot say. Men's hearts hold shadows darker than any tainted creature." She tutted, ratty grey hair hanging about a sharp and angular face. Her eyes burned like embers, as if she could see through Alistair and read his every thought. _

_It made him shiver, though that also could've been from the chill. The former Templar moved closer to the crackling fire, rubbing his hands together. Every part of him felt stiff with a numbness that no flames would loosen. Alistair rubbed at his throat, aching from his sobbing._

_The strange witch, with her strange eyes, only watched, slightly curious. "You're worried that your friend won't make it? I assure you she will, between my talents and my daughter's, we will have her right as swamp water."_

"_I think that's 'right as rain' and were you reading my mind? How did you know what I was thinking?" Suspicious, his nerves tingled under his skin as the Warden tried to tamp down on his desire to flee._

"_Reading minds . . . Now _that_ would be a talent _indeed_, wouldn't it? But no, I have many gifts, however, telepathy is _not_ one of them. Let us say, that I am merely perceptive, and you have a most expressive face, yes." She grinned, letting a brief and maddening laugh escape._

_Alistair couldn't allow himself to relax, though he tried. When he shut his eyes to the flames, horrible images danced like a macabre play behind his lids. If only he hadn't been sent to light the beacon, he would've been there, he could've done something . . . He would've died just like the rest of them. That last thought was the most depressing of them all, because it was probably true. For a moment he thinks that he _should_ have died, with his brothers in arms, with Duncan who was more a father to him in their six months of acquaintance than he'd known his entire life. At least then he would not be sitting outside the shack of a crazy witch and her demon-eyed daughter, the stink of the swamp around him, and a heart full of aching grief and a mind stabbed with the dagger points of a million thoughts._

_He could barely remember her name, lost in all those other faces in his memory, the spoiled brat that was now the only other Warden in Ferelden apart from himself. Right now he doesn't care that she doesn't like him, that _he_ doesn't much care for _her_, because she's all he has. Brown eyes stray to the crooked door of the hut, watching and waiting, but there is nothing, only the sounds of the Kocari Wilds and he turns back to the fire_

"_See? Here is your fellow Grey Warden. You worry too much, young man." The witch sounded slightly amused, but in the short time that Alistair had spoken with her, he wasn't sure if she honestly found something funny or if that was just her way._

_A female Fereldan voice, posh and full of impatience came from behind him, though he didn't catch what was being said. Alistair whipped around, eyes wide and took in the sight of Gwyneth, the new Grey Warden. Her right arm was done up in a sling, stained white bandages winding across her shoulder to her left hip. She had her leather armor dangling over her good arm, the boots already on her feet and the gloves hanging from their ties at her belt. More than anything, it was the look on the red head's face that said she was on the way to recovery. It was a face of cold anger and Alistair knew it well. _

"_You . . . You're alive! I-I thought you were dead for sure!"_

"_Clearly, I'm not. Lucky me." She spared him a short look, almost inspecting, before that sharp silver gaze was focused on the witch instead. Her face was bruised up, but so too were there noticeable red streaks under her eyes, and tell tale puffiness around them. When she spoke, her voice was raspy as if her throat was raw. Alistair wasn't the only one that had been sobbing. "Now, if you'll kindly point me in the direction of Lothering; your daughter mentioned it is the nearest village, and I would like to get underway."_

"_Oh? Off so quickly? And what plans have you regarding the darkspawn, I wonder?" The witch raised a gray brow._

"_I have no such plans. Alistair is the Grey Warden here, not _I_. _Never_ did I want this for myself, I was strong-armed into it and now that it seems the rest of the Grey Wardens in Ferelden are no more, so too is my 'duty' to them gone. As far as I'm concerned, someone _else_ can handle this Blight, if that's even what it is." Her eyes were cold, her tone more so, but it was too much. As if it hid something else._

_The witched nodded, wryly grinning in her forthcoming sarcasm. "Of course. _Someone else_ will realize what needs to be done and act in time, and with sufficient sense to solve the problem. No need for _you_."_

_Gwyneth opened her mouth to say something particularly nasty, disregarding that the old woman was her rescuer, but Alistair spoke first, desperate as he stood quickly, grasping her arm. She tried to yank it away, but his hold was firm._

"_No, please! All the Grey Wardens in Ferelden are gone except for us. I've lost _everyone_ else. For the love of the Maker, don't back out on me now!" He didn't care if he was begging, he didn't care if she called him a churl everyday for the rest of his life, as long as she stayed._

_There seemed to be a long moment that passed, the two Wardens locked on to each other, when finally Alistair loosened his grasp and Gwyneth pulled her arm free._

_She turned her face away, biting her lip and looking as if she might cry, before she angrily composed herself. "Fine. I'll need someone to carry my other sword until I can use it again anyway." Gwyneth was worried he'd start thanking her, or some other rot, so she narrowed her eyes at him. "But _only_ until we get ourselves better sorted out. Then _you_ can contact the foreign Wardens and _I_ can find my brother." The noblewoman couldn't imagine being saddled with someone like Alistair for the long haul, he'd drive her mental for certain, and even worse, he was _common_._

* * *

May 19'th, 9:31 Dragon Age

Alistair ran his hands through his lengthening hair, catching a glimpse of himself in the reflection of his gilded shield, where it was lain against a column. He looked quite different from those departed days of the Blight. His dark gold locks fell below his ears, loose strands tucked behind the lobes themselves, the right side done up in two small braids where it was always wont to fall forward and tickle his face. The goatee was a similar change, and made the man in the reflection nigh unrecognizable from Alistair the Grey Warden, because _this_ new man was Alistair, King of Ferelden.

The ghosts of Ostagar showed no wish to say their farewells to this young king, the stones as eerie and silently watchful as they had been when the sovereign's retinue first arrived.

Cailan's ashes were collected and put inside an empty tin stein. It was hardly the fancy urn that the late king deserved, but it would have to make do until they arrived back at Denerim. Of Cailan's amulet, Alistair was all too aware that it yet hung around Gwyneth's neck, the clawed feet of that gilded dragon hanging tantalizing close to the dark valley between the queen's bosom, and far too near to her heart. It left a bitter taste in the back of his throat.

Dark brown eyes traveled to the bridge, where he could just make out her form, standing near the ledge and looking out at the Kocari Wilds. The queen had been there for at least an hour, and after last night's debacle, the king was more than willing to give her the space she obviously wanted.

Morning had come, and with it, Alistair felt shame. Gwyneth seemed just as willing to lose herself, but she was a virgin and something about her first time being in the chill of the night, on dirty stones, with nothing near romance involved . . . It made the blonde feel like he'd _stolen_ her maidenhood from her. He tried to remind himself that consummating a marriage, no matter in what fashion, was holy and right under the laws of man and the Maker, but he'd never liked the Maker much. That thought was blasphemy, Alistair knew, but he hadn't been smote with a lightning bolt just yet.

Once again he was staring at his wife, as he'd _been_ staring since she emerged from the tent that morning. Alistair had slept outside, in a bedroll next to his horse. She hadn't looked at him, not even for a second, as she'd swept by and headed to collect their cloaks, the only fabric that protected her bare back from the cold stone. Both now stained with fluids and her maiden's blood. Soon after, the young queen had taken both cloaks and put them on the fire with other collected refuse the men and Ser Mhairi had put there. Now she'd left camp yet again and the king argued with himself on whether he should tell her they were almost ready to go or not. He decided to give them both more time and that's when he found it.

Left to his own wanderings, Alistair meandered into the ruins of the old temple at Ostagar, the roof long since gone and open to the white misty sky. The stone altar was still there, in the place where Gwyneth had been made a Grey Warden, where Daveth and Jory had died, one claimed by the taint that he could not overcome, and the other by Duncan's sword and his own cowardice. No one had thought to collect the chalice that night, there'd been too much on their minds. So it was that the large silver cup was forgotten, and had rolled off the altar and was now cradled against some rubble.

The king wondered at it, that it remained, laying there on the cold stone, innocuous and unnoticed. Alistair himself would've passed it by had his wandering mind not led his equally wandering legs back to that spot. He knelt down and grasped it, finding that it felt lighter than he remembered, stained on the inner lip with the darkspawn blood it had frequently held. Without over-thinking it, the blonde tucked the chalice under his arm and took it back to where his stallion was waiting. If his knights noticed his new acquisition, they said nothing of it.

"Pardon, Highness? But I've been talking to the men, and . . ." Ser Mhairi approached the king, gentle and careful with her wording, eyes not looking at her sovereign.

"Yes?" Alistair raised a brow at the well-armored woman.

"I just wanted you to know that, I don't think anyone will say anything about Her Majesty and the late king. Nothing _bad_, I mean." Mhairi cleared her throat, feeling the taller human staring at her, and she finally dared to look up at him. He looked very uncomfortable, but not angry. "You know, it's just, the way Her Highness was _so_ upset yesterday, sometimes there is gossip, n-not that 'I' would do something like that, of course, Sire!" She was quick to explain.

The king looked slightly amused but not inappropriately so. "Of course not."

"Well . . . I just wanted you to know that, as far as we are all concerned, Our Queen was mourning for a friend, and if anyone here tries to say differently, I'll report them to you immediately."

The king blinked at the smaller woman for a moment, considering her words, before he smiled at her and patted her briefly on the shoulder. "Thank you, Ser Mhairi, I appreciate it. You never fail to do your duty to Ferelden, and I can admire that."

She didn't know what to say, feeling immensely flattered. "I . . . th-thank you, Sire."

He only nodded at her before going back to securing his traveling sacks. Leaving the female knight to wander back to her own mount, a proud grin on her face.

* * *

If she closes her eyes, the queen could almost see it. The last desperate battle of Ostagar, Cailan's last night on Thedas. Fresh tears stain her cheeks, and there is no wind this morning to dry them. Gwyneth swipes angrily at the sore and puffy skin beneath her eyes. She is unafraid to cry, she's done so often, but neither is there any wish to turn into a blubbering mess. The tall redhead was holding some ashes from the fire and a few strands of her own hair in one palm, though she hadn't released them yet. She's unsure of why she feels the need, it is a Chasind funeral ritual after all, but there at the northern edge of the Kocari Wilds, it seems appropriate.

With a sharp intake of breath, her palms open to drop her offering to the battle-ravaged field far beneath the bridge. "For luck. Always." The queen says softly, stepping back to grasp Cailan's amulet tightly in one curled fist, the dragon wings biting into the flesh of her palm. For a moment, she feels the compulsion to offer _that_ as well, but she doesn't. It had been hanging around her neck when she finally consummated her vows, on the same parapet where she had kissed Cailan, and it seems wrong to leave it now.

Gwyneth feels Alistair watching her, and she doesn't need to look to know it's him. The prickly sensation of eyes at her back makes her skin tingle, but the queen doesn't turn, _she won't_. There are light bruises near her collarbone and on her neck where the king had bit her in his passion, and a bubble of disgust forms in her abdomen at the thought. She feels like a deviant, like she has spat on the memory of Cailan and Morrigan, of the sacrifices they both made, just to scratch an itch. But there _was_ no itch, certainly not now, and not last night either, at least not at first. Just a palpable need to feel something that wasn't steeped in misery, and it worked . . . but it didn't last.

Every time she moves, she feels a dull ache inside her, a reminder that she is a virgin queen no longer. It was her duty, but Gwyneth can't cry off by claiming that's all she was doing. She'd had a climax that negated the possibility of her saying she hadn't enjoyed it, but it _had_ hurt, _oh Maker had it hurt_! Looking back now, the queen didn't think she could've faked experience with something like that. Nothing she'd would've expected seemed true, not the pain, and not that violent rush of pleasure that screamed along her nerve endings either. Their coupling had been so unrefined and visceral, and the redhead wasn't sure how to explain it to herself, or of how she was supposed to act now.

'_It doesn't change anything. You gave yourself to the king as was promised the day you said vows. Now it's done. Check it off the list, don't worry about it_.' She tried to tell herself, but it didn't work, and with a heavy sigh, she shook her head and made the walk back to camp. Gwyneth felt like everyone knew what happened, a glint in their eyes that said they were aware. '_What if they heard it? No, no, stop being ridiculous_!'

_He_ was still staring, waiting for her to say something, like as not. Last night, after it was over, there were only a few cursory words and this morning Gwyneth did her utmost to avoid Alistair. Though there were times that she couldn't. So, she said nothing, passing him by without the barest glance or word, but she would have to eventually and it was better to get it over with.

"That's a large cup you have there." One cinnamon brow went up when she spotted the silver chalice he was securing in his traveling sack.

Alistair froze for a moment, because he realized Gwyneth was speaking. To _him_. There was telltale redness beneath her eyes, and the king felt nauseated to see it, because this time he thought _he_ might very well have been the cause. "It's the joining chalice, you know, the one you drank from. I found it."

"Yes, I can see that." She returned dryly.

The young king rubbed at the back of his neck, where it was exposed above the armor he'd already donned for the day. "It seemed wrong to leave it here, so I thought we'd bring it with us, maybe give it to Ser Caron, or _Lord_ Caron or whatever you want to call him, when he arrives in Amaranthine. He could use it for any new Wardens."

"He signs the letters he writes with 'Ser Gerod Caron' so I'm going to go with 'Ser'" The queen corrected.

"Riiight. I said that."

"No, you said 'or whatever you want to call him.'"

"_Gwyn-eth_ . . ." Alistair's voice lowered, almost threatening but not quite reaching that state.

She sniffed, rubbing her index finger across her nose in a habit that the king had come to recognize as distaste. "It's fine." A look at their camp and it was obvious that the men would have everything ready to go soon. "We are to take our leave within the hour I'd imagine. Have you said goodbye?"

"Goodbye? To _who_?"

"To those that we can't take with us." For just a flicker there was something like sympathy on her face.

Duncan's two blades were bundled up and ready for their journey to Denerim. It was all Alistair had or would have left of the man, a match to the shield that was safe back home. _Home_. The word struck the young king with some severity, because he'd never really had one. Not whole, and welcoming and _his_. Brown eyes took in all of Ostagar that he could see from where he stood. His voice caught for a moment but the new strength that was beginning to become second nature, took over. "I . . . Yes, yes I've said my farewells to any old ghosts that cared to listen."

* * *

Lord Lothian was the first to give the shout when he saw the king's party return over the hill, moving off of the remnants of the Imperial Highway. His men came to shake their commander's hand, a joviality in them that the Ferelden lord hadn't seen in some time, and an all too familiar grief for those they lost, but many had returned. The darkspawn were defeated, Ostagar was retaken and the king was going to have soldiers assigned there to watch for any sign of further infestation. Lord Lothian grasped the offered hand of the king, his joy at the victory prompting a wide smile from his aging face.

"Maker save King Alistair!" A shout came from back in the ranks, and was echoed as Lord Lothian took up the call as well. The king bowed gracefully as he finally was able to relax for a moment.

What relaxation he could find, at least, for there was little improvement between the king and queen. A companionable sort of solitude that made Alistair feel very lonely. His knights were a good sort and Lord Lothian's men were a jovial bunch, but they were none of them, his friends. They bowed their heads at him and never _ever_ called him by his name.

'_Blockhead! Chantry Boy! Churl! Idiot! Simpleton! Stable Brat!_' They were all once titles given to him by Gwyneth, and he found that he missed them. At least in those days she'd been _speaking_ to him, even if it was mostly acidic and always condescending. The former Lady of Highever had also said his name, her posh accent making it sound more impressive than it's owner thought it really was.

For the past two days, in addition to the night that'd sealed his doom, her words were short, without any kind of emotion, not even anger. Just sort of . . . there. When they'd left Ostagar he could've sworn there was the slightest bit of remorse or sympathy on her face, but it was gone too quickly and Alistair figured he'd been imaging it.

Gwyneth's legs were curled up on the ground, as she was lain back against her still-rolled bedding, an arm slung across Noble's muscular shoulders, her other hand holding back the pages of the tome she was reading. There was enough torchlight on her that she could make out the scrawling script, apparently. When the queen heard the king approaching she glanced up, silver eyes looking eerie and sharp. They were wide at first, but quickly narrowed when she identified her visitor.

"Lord Lothian tells me you mean to disassemble the Imperial Highway here, beyond what he and his men have done. May I ask your purpose?" Gwyneth's voice was curt, but interested.

"I think their's is a brilliant idea don't you?" Alistair tried to smile at her. "I would like to take it another step further."

"_Brilliant_? How so?"

"No one uses the Imperial Highway much, a lot of it _can't_ be used because it's so run down. Sections like the one leading to Ostagar, that _are _in use, we could keep. I think using ruins to rebuild for current and future safety is a nice idea and, you know, economical. You were saying a few weeks ago how the coffers of the palace are not as full as you should like."

"Indeed, I did. So . . . you mean to have the stones taken apart and . . . what?"

"Well, I was thinking we could use them to help in the assembly and repair of different cities and holdings and especially the palace. You wanted to re-decorate in there and I thought . . . Maybe, we could use the wood that we take down in the alienage. I took a tour down there, and we _both_ saw what it was like back during the Blight. They could _use_ some well made construction materials. It'd cost a mite less too."

Gwyneth stared up at him, her mind turning as he waited for her response. She nodded her head, before going back to her reading. "It seems a fine idea."

Alistair smiled and would've said something at acceptance of his own solution, he was rather proud of himself, truth be told, but just as he'd briefly had his wife's attention, it was soon back on her book. The king knelt down on his knees. "Must be _some_ story, you've got there."

"Not really, just some tatty, so-called 'romance' novel. '_Rose of Orlais_' Wynne's favorite apparently, though I cannot _fathom_ why." Gwyneth sniffed in distaste, but she didn't look up from the pages.

"So . . .maybe, if it isn't so interesting, you and I could talk."

"Isn't that what we're doing _now_?"

"No, Gwyn, it isn't and you know it." Exacerbation found footing in the king's tired tone.

"Look, _My King_," Gwyneth made the title sound a bit like an insult, "If this is about our last night at Ostagar, there's _nothing_ to talk _about_. We both got what we needed and that's it, it's over and done. What use is there is 'talking about it'?"

Alistair sighed, sinking down to the ground entirely. His eyes were sheepish, but the brown irises held firm on her face. "Gwyn, because, it _shouldn't_ have been like that, not for you." He lowered his voice but the nascent spouses were away from the rest of camp far enough. "That was your first time, and even though you had the opportunity to say no, I think maybe you thought it was your duty, that you _had_ to. Gwyn, I'm just, I'm _sorry_ and . . "

"Shut up, shut up, _shut up_! Maker! You are so stubborn I can barely stand it!" The queen flopped the book closed rather hard and put it to the ground beside her, fixing the king with a severe look of annoyance. "It _was_ my duty, and _yours_. There's no use in claiming otherwise, because we should have done that back at the beginning of this month. So, now it's done. Yay." The lack of enthusiasm in her voice would've been apparent even if the situation didn't already dictate it. "But I enjoyed _parts_ of it, and _you_ obviously enjoyed yourself . . . " She yanked down the collar of her shirt to show him the bruises at her neck and the hollow of her collarbone. "So, there it is. Now we can forget about it."

She wasn't expecting him to touch her, and she stiffened when his fingers reached over to pull her collar back once again, staring displeased at the marks he'd made.

"_I _did that? Gwyn, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you."

The queen's breath caught, a hard pit in her stomach and the base of her throat making it difficult to speak for a moment. "I . . . it's fine, _I'm_ fine, _you're_ fine, we are _both_ just . . ."

"Fine?" Alistair smiled sadly at her, finishing the sentence, and she only nodded in return.

Orange firelight caught on the stein, resting safely against Gwyneth's hip, containing the ashes of the late king. If Cailan's ghost hadn't followed them out of Ostagar, it was a fair wonder, because his dearly beloved made sure she kept him as close as she could in _all_ ways.

Alistair paused to think about that. Gwyn had never come right out and _said_ their relationship had gone from friendship to romance, but the intent was clear enough to read. When she said he would've married her and loved her, Alistair didn't even think for a moment that his queen was talking about _platonic_ love. His hands tightened into fists as he thought about Eamon, planning and thinking beyond what Alistair was privy too, it had always been so, and it seemed that not even his becoming King had changed that. His adopted uncle never uttered a word about planning to have Gwyneth become the second queen of Cailan. The arl probably didn't think it mattered, but Alistair had a right to know.

Eamon wanted the girl to be queen almost as much as he wanted a Theirin to hold on to the throne, or so it seemed to the new king, and Alistair found himself questioning the 'why' Eamon was the younger brother of the late Queen Rowan. Eamon was not born of the Theirin line. No matter if his relationship with Alistair was that of an uncle or not, he'd put the bastard of his brother-in-law on the throne, and wanted Alistair to take to wife the _same_ woman he'd been planning on replacing Anora with while Cailan was still alive.

Alistair's mouth twisted unpleasantly at those thoughts. Eamon wasn't the only one capable of that same behind-the-scenes planning and conniving. Gwyneth and the arl were two peas in the same pod when it came to that sort of thing.

His queen kept things to herself, either because she didn't trust Alistair or she didn't think he'd understand. The angry part of him wanted to imagine it was both, but he just didn't know. Gwyneth had not said anything about her previous relationships, but Alistair wasn't a fool, he knew there had to have been at least half-a-dozen, he saw the way she was when flirting was her intention. She'd kept her feelings for Cailan to herself, and she hadn't said anything about Morrigan either, _he'd_ had to _guess_ first.

Eamon was his uncle, Gwyneth was his wife, he cared about both of them, but he couldn't help but feel like a third wheel, as if the two of them could conspire completely without his presence at all. Alistair set his jaw. _'I won't let that happen. Eamon wanted me on the throne, Gwyneth agreed to be my queen, they are going to get _exactly_ what their planning created.'_

"Ser Mhairi came to me, promised that my knights wouldn't say anything about you and Cailan, I believe they probably won't, but don't you think you should be more careful? Carrying his ashes around with you, it's . . " Alistair never got to finish.

"It's off limits to your prying, is what it is!" Gwyneth got up, collecting the stein and holding it to her breast before turning away to head for the caravan wagon that she would sleep in for the night. She stopped, actually snorting with anger as she rounded on Alistair. "Do _I_ pry about _your_ dreams of Leliana? No, I don't!"

"_Dreams_?" He raised his dark blonde brows, before his face become slightly embarrassed. "How did you . . . how did you know that?"

Gwyneth rolled her eyes. "Oh, _please_. You call her name out in your sleep almost nightly." A smile, very far from friendly, made the corners of her thin lips curl in a feline appearance. "You know what? You don't want me taking care of our late king, _you_ do it!" She thrust the stein at him. "He was your _brother_, after all." Turning on her heal, leaving a speechless Alistair behind her, she climbed into the wagon.

Alistair had a feeling he was sleeping with his horse . . . again.


	17. Chapter 17: Common Touch

**Disclaimer:** _"Dragon Age: Origins" and all its expansions and additional content is the property of Bioware and EA Games. Large portions of written content within the game, as well as Dragon's Age: The Stolen Throne, and Dragon's Age: Calling, are the creation of David Gaider. Original scenarios and characters are used under the creative license of the writer, ItalianEmpress1985. No profit is being made and the following story is for entertainment purposes only._

* * *

**Words From The Author**_**:**__ It's revealed through certain dialogue options in canon, that Cailan wasn't all that faithful to his wife. I think that was probably the case with a lot of noblemen, with arranged marriages being the norm, not that ALL arranged marriages produce __adultery__, but I'd be willing to bet that several did. I wanted to get that out of the way, so if anyone tells you 'Cailan would never cheat on Anora' well, despite the fact that I like him, yeah, he would._

_With Dragon Age, everyone seems to have rights to a last name, it just seems that the game designers/writers didn't always feel that every character required one. For instance, even a casteless dwarf had a surname, (Brosca, as you find out if you play the Dwarf Commoner origin) And I've always had the feeling that Dragon Age was inspired by a mix between medieval and renaissance Europe and Britannia, so straddling those two time periods I'm entirely comfortable with commoners having surnames. You'll encounter some of that in this chapter, so I just wanted to make sure my own ideas about that were made obvious in notation before we go any further._

_Thank you for stopping in. Watch out for low flying dragons!_

* * *

_**Chapter Seventeen:**_

_**Common Touch**_

_There's something I can see._

_Something different in the way you smile._

_- - __3 Doors Down_

* * *

August 27'th, 9:28 Dragon Age

_**H**__umidity was sticking to her face and Gwyneth Cousland fanned herself with fervor as she walked carefully through the underbrush, following her mabari, as he led her to her brother, who was entertaining the king with a brief hunt. From the word of Fergus' manservant, the two nobles hadn't taken the hounds or any horses, which meant it was less a hunt and more an excuse to get away from the festivities. Gwyneth knew how her brother could be. The eighteen year old redhead crinkled her nose, she didn't care for hunting any more than she __cared__ for sword craft. They weren't ladylike activities, though necessary at their barest minimum for her __education__. It was one arena in which her refined mother relented to become a bit tougher around the edges._

_Teyrna Eleanor was a graceful woman, proper and fine always, but she understood that a Ferelden woman had to be able to help herself when no one else could. For the teyrna, she also wanted to make sure that the Orlesian half of her blood did not lead others into believing her an Orlesian wallflower. It was a legacy she passed down to Gwyneth, though the Lady of Highever had taken up only with minimalist efforts, for the young girl was far more wont to surround herself with finery and girlish talk._

_The one area in which she may have been less than so, was the possession of her war dog. Other noble ladies would rather have smaller dogs, or cats, something little and fluffy to sit in their lap, but from the moment Gwyneth and Noble met it was love at first sight. He'd been but a wriggling pup, one of three smaller pups of a larger litter but he'd grown to be the biggest, and as far as his mistress was concerned, he was the brightest as well._

_Fergus complained that Gwyneth was coddling him and turning him into a pampered pet instead of a hunter, but she'd show him, because Noble was going to find Lord Cousland._

"_Come on, my baby, take me to Fergus, yes that's it. You are such a good boy, Noble." Gwyneth cooed as the chestnut colored mabari would go forward a pace before pausing so she could catch up._

_The length of the light green gown was getting hung up in the branches and the Lady of Highever had to stop to free her long skirts. Gwyneth wanted to tug at them, angry at being held up, but then they'd rip, and she couldn't have that. Finally they were free after enough ministration. Noble came over to her, nudging her hand and sticking his nose northwards. The redhead held one thin hand over her eyes, peering into the trees, and her pouting lips turned up into a cat-like grin. Her brother's green and gold cloak was visible and behind him, the golden vestments of the King of Ferelden._

_She would surely win her game with Aurelia now._

"_Brother!" She called out, infusing her voice with just the right amount of produced coyness._

_Noble barked and went running to stand beside the surprised Lord Fergus. He sat down on his haunches across the older Cousland's boots. Tongue lolling as the mabari looked to his mistress, full of pride._

"_Gwyny-Gwyn, call off your fool dog! He weighs a ton!" Fergus snipped, brushing an errant lock of cropped cinnamon hair away from his pale face._

_Gwyneth whistled shortly and Noble trotted back to her side. "He thought he was hunting you is all." She pouted cutely at her brother._

_Fergus rolled his silver eyes. "Uh huh, I'm sure it was _entirely_ by accident." His brow furrowed at his little sister. "What is the birthday girl doing traipsing over here, it could be dangerous, we were on a hunt, didn't my manservant say anything?"_

"_Oh, of a surety, but I was simply doing my duty. Oren was carrying on for you some time ago and I promised him that 'Aunty Gwyn' would come fetch you, and so . . . here I am." She smiled, turning her gaze on the very handsome Cailan Theirin, who had the grace to return the smile. "As for danger, there isn't much in _these_ woods, and you can't have had a very good hunt on foot, dressed as you are."_

"_Clearly, if _you_ managed to find us." Fergus shot back, sharing a brief glare with his sister. Lord Cousland gave an exaggerated sigh of long suffering. "Very well then, I suppose I'll have to go fetch my son." He turned to grin wryly at the king. "Just wait until you have some of your own, Highness."_

_Cailan sniffed, looking away. "Yes." Short and to the point, it appeared he was none too pleased that he wasn't a father already._

"_Gwyny-Gwyn, can you bring the king back?" He wasn't terribly worried about her safety, despite his words, and even less so if she was in the company of a practiced man. There was a pause where he _was _a bit worried for _Cailan_, however. Gwyneth could be a man-eater, and caused Fergus a fair share of grief in having to protect his sister's honor . . . but surely she wouldn't use her wiles on the _king_. "Home isn't far." Fergus was already making steps away, his fine leather boots crunching on old leaves and twigs._

_Gwyneth waved him off, a coquettish look to her face. "Certainly brother. I believe Oren is with your wife's maids near the kitchens." Helpful to the last, even when she was fibbing through her teeth._

_She took the king's arm demurely, as her mother often did with guests, holding her head in a stately fashion, as if they were taking a leisurely walk through the garden instead of the woods. Their pace was slower than Fergus' and soon Gwyneth's brother was out of sight "If you'll just follow me, Majesty."_

"_So, you're the Cousland girl, Lady Gwyneth is it? Congratulations on your birthday." Cailan brushed imagined dirt from his collar with his free hand, the other lain against his lightly armored hip, creating a loop with his arm that Gwyneth had her own hand wound about. He could feel her long fingers against the cuff of his undershirt. _

_Though the young King of Ferelden liked the way his golden plate mail made him look, larger than life and most impressive, he had to admit he was glad to be free of it today. It was far too hot and the finely woven leathers were better for a simple hunt. Not that they'd caught much of anything, it'd mostly been an excuse to get away from the gossiping ladies back at Castle Cousland. The sovereign liked their attention, but there could be too much of a good thing._

_He glanced down his regal nose at the lady beside him, taking her in. She was of shocking beauty and Cailan would know, being the connoisseur of fine women as he was. Lady Cousland had her dark red hair done up in a elaborate braided bun, decorated with tiny jeweled pins, leaving her graceful neck bare save for the line of pearls that drew his gaze to the low cut bodice of her gown. The Maker had blessed the girl with an ample bosom, and the small bit of shadow there was highly tempting. It was with some effort that the king drew his eyesight elsewhere. _

_Gwyneth was thankful for her long legs, allowing her to stay in step with the king and she smiled up at him charmingly. "Thank you. His Majesty is too kind, and I must admit some honored surprise that Our King would attend my simple little gathering." A 'simple' gathering of the finest nobility and hundreds of lesser nobles and servants._

"_If I had known Fergus's little sister had grown into such a lovely young lady, I might have paid a visit sooner." Cailan's blue eyes lit up with mischief. His flirtatious words were a bit more blatant than usual, but the pair are alone._

_The redhead dared to lightly swat the king's forearm through his leathers, shooting him a playful smirk. "Highness, really. I believe the last time I saw you, I was in pigtails."_

"_Yes, I think I recall that. Though we have never met officially. A pity really." Cailan clicked his tongue, ducking his light blonde head to avoid a low hanging branch._

"_My parents thought me too young I assume, but I am of an age now. Eighteen today." There is an unspoken invitation somewhere in there, and Gwyneth knows exactly the right tone to use to garner the king's interest. Though his nature should make her sport a bit easier. She'd heard rumors of King Cailan's different mistresses during his short reign, to date. There was a tale that one of them had even been an elf, however Gwyneth vowed that the sovereign had never quite met a girl like herself and in that, she has the advantage. She has the proper blood and breeding to hang on his arm and be looked upon with favor, but still one must be wary of ill words. So the invitation is left unspoken, hanging in the air between them._

"_Not yet married I hear. Surely your fine parents must be waiting for just the right suitor, certainly it would have to be someone of as prestigious a blood line as your own." He watched her as they neared the edge of the scant woodlands._

_Gwyneth sighed for effect, nodding her head in agreement. "Sadly, there are so very few 'true' nobles left in Ferelden."_

_Cailan nodded in turn, and then she gifted him with her full gaze and his breath caught in his throat. Her eyes were like two silver pools of starlight, burning candles that drew him in with whispered promises. He could feel himself falling toward her, even though he was still standing. The king found his voice, beaming down at the noblewoman. "Then I should count your future husband as a lucky man, to secure such a bride."_

* * *

May 21'st, 9:31 Dragon Age

The queen tossed and turned in her bedroll, waking up several times with her hands posed at the edge of the thin blanket, ready to march outside and take back Cailan's stein, sometimes she was _desperate_ to have it back. But she stays in the covered wagon, irritable and feeling very out of sorts. The space beside her is unoccupied and Gwyneth has slept alone since Ostagar, or rather has _not_ slept. To her great chagrin the young queen finds that she is lonely for Alistair's company, just the silent presence beside her at night.

She never _told_ Alistair he couldn't sleep with her, anymore than he'd ever voiced a desire to sleep outside, it was more of an _unspoken_ agreement of distance. It'd been awkward that first night, but then they got over it quick enough, but the night of the wedding was _nothing_ compared to the awkwardness present after their consummation.

'_Consummation. An unfeeling word.'_

Gwyneth's austere nose wrinkled up in one corner as she turned over on her side, getting angry at the blanket and flinging it back, giving a huff to stare up at the dark low ceiling of the wagon. "Ah, fuck it!" Drawing her legs out from under the bedroll she quickly got to her knees, standing upright on them to knock her head against the wood. "Maker-damn it!" Seething through her teeth, she gave the offending ceiling a disgruntled look before finagling her way outside of the caravan, only to fall on her face when her feet caught the edge of the opening.

Hands wiped at her stinging face, swiping the dirt from it. "This is bloody _perfect_! I hope you find this _amusing_!" The queen shook a fist at the sky and the Maker. A few of Lothian's men were awake, some of those that had not traveled to Ostagar. They looked over at the queen warily, perhaps wanting to ask if she was alright, but fearing that she was in a fit of angered pique and would have them decapitated or the like.

With a turn of her head and feet she was off to find where Alistair was sleeping. A quiet voice stopped her in her tracks and she paused behind some trees to listen, hoping the traveling attire she'd slept in didn't make too much noise. Long pale fingers pulled the scraggly lower branches apart, peering between them to find the king sat down on his bedroll, back pressed against a tree, a small lantern on the ground beside him. Dim orange light was outlining the planes of his bare chest. Gwyneth found herself admiring his build. Though he'd gained some weight in the past month and a half, he was nearly as fit as ever, and Alistair was never a slouch in the muscle department. In that way at least he was very much like his brother.

There are long red welts along his back, becoming visible as he turns to rub Noble between the ears. He had been talking to the mabari, the _queen's_ mabari, but Gwyn can't even think about her precious war-dog. She's too focused on the marks upon the king's back, marks that _she_ put there when she clawed him with her fingernails during sex. Alistair had apologized for hurting her, even though the bruises didn't really hurt, at least not physically. However, he'd never said anything about _her_ hurting _him_.

"You should have said something, instead of letting me think you got away unscathed." Gwyneth walked out slowly, but he jumped when she spoke anyway.

"What are you . . . Oh, my back, you mean?" Alistair was already rutting around his bedroll for his shirt.

"Yes, your back." Gwyneth rolled her eyes, crossing her arms across her chest, but none of her bile from earlier was present and she was watching Alistair move with an intensity that made him slightly discomfited. "We've seen each other _naked_, I think modesty is a little late in coming."

The king yanked the loose muslin shirt over his head, giving the queen a sidelong look. "I hope you didn't come out here to yell at me again. I was just telling Noble how it's difficult to guess at your mood." He readied himself for the next barrage of biting retort from her.

Gwyneth smiled down at the mabari, who had his head resting on his folded front paws. "No, I couldn't sleep is all. How did you get him to come over to you? He's fairly fussy about that."

"I lured him with some dried beef, we're alike in that way. I'm a sucker for cheese, he's a sucker for overly salty meat." Noble growled low in his throat and Alistair put his hands up. "Alright, alright, it's just _slightly_ salty meat, and I won't insult your culinary tastes."

Noble seemed satisfied with that as he lay his head down again. Every once and while his brown canine eyes would shift to look at the sleeping horse, tied to a nearby tree, but with his belly full he was more likely to lay there like a lump for a few hours than cause any mischief.

"I wanted someone to talk to, and there isn't really anyone around that it would be appropriate to talk with about personal things. You know?"

"Yes, I _do_ know."

Alistair went to hand her back the stein, where he had it amongst his possessions. "Here, I didn't mean for you to give it to me. I don't really know all that you might be feeling and if you want it, you should have it back."

For a moment Gwyneth _really_ wanted to take Cailan's ashes, to flee back to the covered wagon, distance herself from Alistair and the feeling of being over-exposed, that was present when he was around. There was safety in distance, both emotional and physical, but it didn't make it any easier to sleep. "I . . . yes, I _do_ want it back . . . So _you_ better keep it." She sat down, noticing with some guilt that Alistair flinched away from her. "Or, we could let your brother rest, well secured with our things outside the wagon, as we try to do the same, because it doesn't look like _you_ were sleeping either."

There's an obvious offer in her suggestion, but the blonde ignores it on purpose, not daring to assume anything. "No, this shirt is too rough and it scrapes against my back." Alistair wriggled in it for effect. "So I took it off, but then I felt like there were some bugs biting at me. It was a lose/lose situation."

"I'm sorry." The redhead's voice was so quiet he barely heard her.

"What?"

"For your back, I'm sorry for scratching you. I wasn't thinking." She cleared her throat, looking nervous. She wasn't very good with apologies, and from _her_, they were rare anyway. Alistair must've known that too, because he looked fairly surprised, but a slow smile formed across his face.

"It's alright Gwyn, I don't think _either_ of us were thinking, and they don't sting that badly."

"Is it _always_ like that?" Her cheeks were growing just two shades lighter than her hair, the king's lantern making them look ruddy.

"Is _what_ always like _what_?" Dark blonde brows furrowed across the young king's forehead.

"You know, 'that.' Is it always so . . . _rough_? I feel like we went through a battle instead of . . ." Gwyneth trailed off, wishing she hadn't said anything, or at least that she could find a hollow tree to step into to get away from her rampant embarrassment. As always, her curiosity got the better of her.

He turned away from her, unable to look at the woman for his own unease. "Ahh, nooo, not really _all_ the time, or even _some_ of the time. I guess we just got carried away." Alistair dared one glance at her, and almost sighed with relief to find that she was gazing off into the trees. She was biting her lip, he could see it from the side.

The two of them feel into a pregnant, awkward silence. There were peepers somewhere in the tall grass around Lothering, likely coming from the creek bed not far off. Firelight from the soldier's distant campfire caught the edges of the pieces of a windmill, whose rebuilding process had been halted. Every few seconds, Noble whined and kicked his back legs, probably dreaming about chasing wild hares. One of Lothian's men began laughing, the far away sound of it seeming to echo into the scant tree cover where the king had created his own little nest.

Gwyneth opened her mouth, shifting on her palms, but she closed it again. Alistair wiggled his hips to try and get comfortable sitting on his bedroll. He sighed once, then twice more. Gwyneth cleared her throat and the silence continued.

"Alright, here's the thing . . ."

"I just want to say . . ."

They both began at the same time and the queen grinned. "We have to stop doing that."

The pair of them can easily remember the _many_ times they accidentally spoke at the same moment, during those six months of travel. Six months that had created a rare and fragile friendship between a stuck-up noblewoman and an unsure stable-boy. A stable boy that had become king, and _married_ that stuck-up noblewoman, leaving their friendship behind at the altar of matrimony, and there's no denying that now.

"_That's_ what you wanted to say?" Alistair quirked a brow, the left curve of his upper lip making him look a little amused.

"No, but it's true all the same." Gwyneth placed her hand out, palm facing up in an offer. "Alright, you first."

"I can't keep trying to bridge the gap between us if all you do is push me away. I know some of what you're feeling, you aren't the only person that has lost someone important." His brown eyes became hard, and if his queen was going to harp at him this time, he didn't care as much because he was ready for her. Those silver eyes reflected his own face back at him, her mouth silent, and he was once again struck by their intensity.

Her eyes are more than half the reason that she could talk him into just about anything, and not just him, he's seen the effect they had on others. They are hooks that catch on people's souls and reel them in, and Alistair has never been immune to that, no matter those moments where he really disliked Gwyn. Those silver pools did him in every time before he even had a _chance_ to protest. It's not fair, and he bears down on that feeling of wanting to soften towards her.

With a deep breath, he continues. "This has to stop, Gwyn, not just for our sakes, but what about Lothian's men? If you keep carrying on like this, someone is going to say something. You yourself told me about the importance of keeping up appearances, so tell me what image we are making _now_? You cloister yourself away from me, and we don't even _sleep_ together."

She was still looking at him, but had yet to respond.

He could imagine why she would've liked Cailan, a man who was very flashy and noble, fashionable and wont to strut around very aware of his position. What he couldn't imagine was Gwyneth _loving_ anyone, and though he'd noticed something between her and Morrigan, even that showed little signs of what he himself had come to realize love was. He tried, but her demeanor made it impossible, and Alistair found himself wishing he _could_ know, somehow, that he could connect with her on that level, but if Gwyneth had loved Cailan and Morrigan, it was not the way Alistair had loved Leliana.

"I'm willing to give you the time you need, of course I am, but why do you have to deal with it _alone_?" He searched her face for anything, watching as it dropped. The blonde remembers her promise to him on their wedding night, that she would hold true to her vows and that he would never be alone. Already he finds that he is, but at the look on her face, his feelings of being let down melt slowly, waiting for what his queen might say.

"Because you make me uncomfortable. Things have . . . They've gone too far now, there's no way for me to look on you as merely some simple friend, and certainly not as a _brother_." She cleared her throat, wincing at the way he recoiled from her words, but it was the truth. Siblings did not behave the way she and Alistair had the past few days. Siblings did not marry each other. "I feel sickened with myself, like I have spat on Cailan, Morrigan and even Leliana. I don't want to look at you, because you are the first man that I have _ever_ been with, and yet, there is nothing between us more than what we have now, and that isn't much. Mostly, I _can't_ look at you and not remember how it felt to have you between my thighs, and I don't wish to remember _that_."

"Because it was horrible?" Alistair's voice was low and raspy but Gwyneth couldn't imagine what he was feeling because he wasn't facing her any longer.

"No, because it _wasn't_ horrible. It hurt like a _bitch_, but when that ebbed, there was _immense _pleasure there and I don't know how to be around you anymore."

The king's breath caught in his chest, several responses ready on his tongue and yet he could say none of them. His eyes were wide and stuck on her, watching the way her chest heaved when she took a deep breath, the snug way her traveling breeches hugged those long legs of hers. Suddenly he understood completely, how it felt wrong to be attracted to Gwyn. This wasn't suppose to happen. The premise of their union was simple enough, even if the eddies in the stream of it were far from simple. She'd be his queen in public, and his friend in private, but now she was just his queen, a delicious, supple queen who moaned like a siren.

"Maybe it starts small." The queen is speaking again, one hand around her throat as her fingers drum a tempo against one collarbone. "Bridging the gap, maybe it doesn't happen in a single bound, but in steady small steps."

"Like what?" Alistair was almost afraid to ask.

"Like, the king and queen sharing sleeping quarters as they are suppose to. Or a wagon as it were."

"Are you asking me to sleep with you?" He was staring at her, agape.

"The truth be told, I'm finding some difficulty in sleeping alone anymore. So . . . Yes, I guess that's _exactly_ what I'm asking you." She got up, dusting her traveling breeches off. "And the ground is no place for the King of Ferelden to rest his head for the night."

Alistair almost wants to say no, to deny her as she denies him, to let her have a taste of her own medicine, but the ground _is_ uncomfortable. Sleeping on a fine feather mattress softened him, the king thinks, but there's no use in denying it. The bedding set up for them in the covered wagon where Gwyneth was sleeping isn't the royal bed, but it's better than sleeping with his horse. She's staring at him again, waiting and watchful, and that seals it. "Alright, Gwyn."

* * *

Brackenridge was a small settlement, nestled against the foothills of the Dragon Peaks, within the borders of the arling of South Reach, but beyond its sight. King Alistair's royal retinue had passed through there on the way to Ostagar; the reception they had received was cautious at best. It wasn't as if the king could blame them either, in these new uncertain days where darkspawn still ran amok, a fully armored party could still draw some wary gazes.

'_Are there darkspawn about that they are after?' 'Are these really the king's men, or the foreign invaders that Teyrn Loghain was saying would show up again?'_

This time however, there is a different feeling to the settlement and as Gwyneth steps from the wagon, she puts a smile on her face to echo the looks of greeting they were receiving.

One of Lord Lothian's soldiers that was lost at Ostagar, was from this village and Alistair insisted on bringing the body back under royal guard, to honor the man's sacrifice as best as he could. The Knights of Denerim had placed the man's body on a cart covered with sack cloth. The king had taken his cloak off to use as a burial shroud, to his wife's protests and those of his knights. "I can always get another cloak, but this man will never have another one." Those somber words had tided them over and here they were.

Alistair glanced around at the watchful faces. The commoners were smiling, happy to hear word of victory against darkspawn that could threaten them, and then they began to see the shrouded body on the cart and their smiles became frowns. These were a people not unaccustomed to loss.

"Excuse me, good folk, but I must ask if any here know of a Missus Willowbrook?" Ser William cleared his throat, continuing at the king's nod.

Gwyneth was beginning to suspect that her husband would name Ser William as the First Knight of Court, upon their return. The first member of the new king's Honor Guard. William was clearly Alistair's favorite. Gwyneth glanced to the knights assembled dourly by their small caravan to find her _own_ favorite. The queen was quite impressed with Ser Mhairi, she held her own against the men, but didn't appear to have a chip on her shoulder because of the added pressures of her being a woman. Mhairi was not without pride and some few prejudices, but Gwyneth could forgive her that as she had those failings herself. The female knight did not shirk from darkspawn and fought them with admirable ferocity. Now, the brunette was stood stock straight, head held high and arms at her sides, as Ser William spoke to the villagers.

A woman who appeared to eat much of what she cooked, stepped forward, a dirty apron proof of her recent endeavors in her kitchen. A collection of golden curls was piled haphazardly on her head, and one had escaped to tickle her face, but the middle aged woman made no attempt to brush it back, bright eyes wide on the king's caravan. She was pretty, even for her ample weight. "I'm Muriel Willowbrook, and I'm the only 'Missus Willowbrook' around these parts. Do you bring news of my husband?"

Ser William bent low for the woman, but before he could speak, the king's hand was at his back.

Alistair stepped forward and bowed similarly to the woman, the other settlers watching awestruck to see a king bow to a commoner. "Pardon, goodwife Willowbrook, but was your husband a man by the name of _Nevil_ Willowbrook?"

The woman nodded, an understanding in her eyes making her full face crumple in on itself. She couldn't seem to speak and two of the other women came up to her, their hands at her shoulders.

"Then I have both the honor and the regret of informing you that your fine husband fell in battle, to protect your lands and Ferelden from the darkspawn, and he shall be honored as a hero of his people." Alistair called for the Knights of Denerim to bring the cart forward.

Muriel's wet eyes fell on to the king's cloak, a shroud for the man beneath it. "Nevil? _My_ Nevil?" Her voice was strained and squeaky with the breath that wasn't there. "No . . . y-you must be mistaken!" Hands trembled as she drew the fine cloth back, to reveal her husband's face. They'd poured a medicinal tincture over his skin to keep the flies and rot away for a time, and the strong smell invaded her nostrils. It smelled of death. An awful wail escaped her as she fell to her knees, the two women from before at her side. "Nevil!"

Gwyneth could feel her eyes stinging, reminded all too much of her own grief at finding Cailan strung up like an unwanted slab of meat, left to rot. He too had died defending the land from darkspawn. While later there would come peace in such knowledge, the queen knew that for Muriel Willowbrook, all that mattered now was that her husband was _dead_, and there was no comfort that would erase her obvious heartbreak.

The queen walked toward the sobbing woman slowly, the two ladies beside her moving away when they spotted their sovereign's approach. Gwyneth laid a hand on the woman's shoulder, kneeling in the dirt with her.

Alistair watched closely, shocked right down to his bones. He'd seen some _slight_ improvement on Gwyneth's part, as to the way she interacted with servants and serfs alike, but she still didn't like to touch them more than was necessary.

"There is nothing I can say that will ease his passing for you, there is nothing King Alistair or I can do that will take away the pain of goodman Willowbrook's death." The woman sobbed harder and the queen ran a hand over the woman's dry curls comfortingly. "I will stay beside you at his pyre, and we will honor this man, who though born common shall have a noble funeral." The queen's voice was a low croon, none of that seemingly ever present superiority was there. Sat upon the ground with the grieving woman, they looked as equal as they could be, and it was what Gwyneth wanted. For she was the queen of _all_ Ferelden, not just the nobility.

A look was sent over Muriel's head to find Alistair, and he was watching his wife with a gaze she had never seen before. Gwyneth dared not read anything into it and instead went back to comforting the new widow as best as she could, but the former Cousland was never very good at such things. Still the woman was calming, her place forgotten, as if she was beyond recognizing that she was seated beside royalty. Widow Willowbrook grasped at Gwyneth's shirt and buried her face against the younger woman's ruffled lapels, sobbing terribly.

The commoners watching, winced or their mouths fell agape with shock. '_Muriel couldn't just grab on to the bloody _queen_ like that!' _There would be repercussions for Missus Willowbrook forgetting her place, no matter her state of grief.

Instead Gwyneth stayed on her knees next to the woman, her arms going awkwardly around the widow's shoulders as she let her cry, recognizing the need for grieving.

Sometime later, after Muriel Willowbrook had calmed herself enough to be led away by her friends, the king and queen found themselves helping the locals pick wildflowers to set around the funeral pyre. The knights were employed in other tasks, not a single member of the royal retinue was left to leisure, by King Alistair's request. He wanted the settlers to see that _he_ served _them_, and in honoring one of their fallen, he would see to it that today, commoners would be able to tell their neighbors that they too were a part of Ferelden, that the king had a care for them _all_.

* * *

The king paused, the basket he had, filled about halfway with queen's lace and merry bells, the white lacey flowers and the tinier blue, bell-like blooms looking nice together. It wasn't the most manly of tasks, he knew, but no one seemed to care about that much.

Brown eyes strayed across the field, watching his wife. She'd been lent a white apron from one of the washer women and had it tied around her waist, hanging about her breeches like a simple skirt. Her long cinnamon hair was pinned up to keep her abundant ringlets from her face.

Gwyneth had managed to collect a young admirer, a ginger haired girl that couldn't have been anymore than ten. She was chattering away with the queen as they were both searching for more colorful finds.

"My momma says pink isn't a color for boys, but I like it. I think Mister Willowbrook would like 'em." The girl hummed as she plucked some light purple thistles.

"Yes, I am fair certain he would." Gwyneth nodded as if it were a most serious discussion.

"I like your voice, it's fancy." The girl's light green eyes glanced up at the woman beside her. "You're pretty too. My papa says you look like Andraste, she was the most beautiful woman in Ferelden you know, and her singing was beautiful too, that's why The Maker fell in love with her."

"Yes, I might've heard that." There was a smile threatening at the corner of Gwyneth's mouth.

"Can _you_ sing?"

"About as well as a toad, child."

"_Really_? That _bad_, huh?" The girl giggled.

"Calila Ashleigh! You get over here this _instant_, leave Our Queen alone!" An austere looking redhead stood farther away from them, making haste towards the queen and her daughter with apparent worry.

It occurred to Gwyneth that the woman was probably distressed to think that royal displeasure would befall their family if their queen was bothered by their child. She narrowed silver eyes for a moment. Her late nephew Oren could drive anyone to insanity, and he talked and talked without an end in sight, always wanting to chatter, play or listen to stories. It was the way of most children the young queen had encountered. She'd never _loved_ children, but she didn't _hate_ them either. Once upon a time, she had been one herself and she tried to keep that in mind.

She stood up from where she had been bent, turning her frown into a smile of greeting, hoping to calm the flustered mother, who had come up and taken a hold of the pouting girl's palm. "It is fine Missus Ashleigh, Miss Calila was of great assistance in picking some nice flowers. I could not have collected all these without her. Twas no bother at all."

"H-Highness! You are most gracious, Majesty. If I may have my leave, I shall take my wayward child in hand." The woman bowed, not daring to look the queen in the face.

"Of _course_ you may have your leave, and it was very nice to meet you Miss Calila." Gwyneth nodded her head demurely as the mother and daughter made their way back to the village proper.

"Nice to meet you too!" The young girl called back as her mother scolded her too quietly for Gwyneth to hear and kept pulling the child behind her. The queen watched them for a time, before she bent low again to pick some promising yellow buttercups.

"I think she might be too young to become a Lady in Waiting, though I'd hazard a guess that she'd _love_ that."

Gwyneth jumped to hear Alistair's rich voice behind her. Some of the flowers she had collected fell out of her basket. "You frightened me!" She had a hand against her chest, her heart thumping under the linen of her ruffled traveling tunic.

Alistair was already searching in the grass for the blooms his wife had lost. "I'm sorry. Well, here are your buttercups." Trying to finagle them back into the basket while Gwyneth was doing the same was a chore and he settled for tucking them into the pockets of her borrowed apron. "There, I think that's all of them."

The queen nodded her head, seemingly satisfied. "What was it you were saying about a Lady in Waiting?"

"Your young admirer there. It's too bad she was born common, or she'd make a very loyal Lady in Waiting, I think. She was clearly enamored of _you_." Alistair grinned in the direction of the departed Calila and her mother.

"Hmm, oh yes, quite . . . but then, elves are made Ladies in Waiting, as my Siofra is. One needn't _always_ be born of such prestige to be named in that position, for it _is_ one of service."

The king's grin became wider at his queen's words. She was thinking, he could tell, and he liked the direction her thoughts were going in. "Yes, that's true."

"Ah, but those are thoughts for later and we are occupied with our task of collection." Gwyneth peered into the king's reed basket. "Queen's lace, I didn't think they grew around here. You've found _several_, and merry bells too!" The redhead's face lit up. "Oh they are dainty! I love them! Thank you for taking up flower picking with us ladies." She grinned as if sharing in a private joke with him.

"You're quite welcome, at least this job smells nice, well, mostly. I think I discovered some skunk-weed over there by that willow tree." Alistair wrinkled his nose.

"I certainly hope you didn't get too far into it, your clothes will stink awful!"

"You'd kick me out of the wagon tonight, wouldn't you?" He raised a questioning dark blonde brow.

"Maybe . . . _probably_." She smiled, looking back over her shoulder toward the settlement. "But what would the villagers say if they saw that the king and queen didn't sleep together?"

Alistair tutted his tongue. "They'd start some vicious rumors about how King Alistair smells like skunk weed and his wife's sensitive nose can't handle the odor."

"Well, good for us that you still smell of your soap from this morning, and maybe just a _bit_ of sweat, but I can live with that." She grinned, enjoying the brief banter. It's not the same as it used to be, but it's _something_.

He's watching her with the strange focused gaze she spotted earlier.

"Why do you keep looking at me as if you haven't seen me before?" She raised one brow at him, the hand not holding the reed basket curled at her hip.

"Maybe I haven't at that. You surprised me today, with the widow in the village and then that little girl."

"Were those things . . . _bad_?" Gwyneth's voice is cautious. She knows they could very easily fall into another argument, and since yesterday there has been a very careful peace between them, and she was rather hoping it would last at least until they got back to Denerim.

"No, Gwyn, they weren't bad."

"Oh. Well . . . We'd better get back to collecting the flowers we'll need. I was hoping to get all of them back to the pyre before it gets too dark." Gwyneth suddenly felt more shy than she was comfortable with and she turned from Alistair to get back to her flower picking. When he reached for her arm to pull her up, her surprise was evident on her face and in her wide eyes.

Alistair reached forward to gently pluck a wayward thistle from her pinned ringlets. "You wouldn't like to have flowers in your hair unless you put them there on purpose."

Gwyneth smiled. "Maybe you know me after all."

The king snorted. "For my own mental health, I wouldn't want to assume _anything_. You'd just surprise me again out of _spite_." His grin fell short as he realized how she might have taken that. But she blinked at him slowly, and then laughed.

It was a nice sound.


	18. Chapter 18: A Staid Strength

**Disclaimer:** _"Dragon Age: Origins" and all its expansions and additional content is the property of Bioware and EA Games. Large portions of written content within the game, as well as Dragon's Age: The Stolen Throne, and Dragon's Age: Calling, are the creation of David Gaider. Original scenarios and characters are used under the creative license of the writer, ItalianEmpress1985. No profit is being made and the following story is for entertainment purposes only._

* * *

**Words From The Author**_**:**__ 'The Dragon Peaks' is the title of the mountain range that follows the road leading from south to north - and Denerim, the 'Dragon Hills' is a name I made up, because it just makes sense to me to have smaller hills that come down from the higher mountain ranges. I live in a mountainous region myself, and I know the land gradually changes level so that there are always hills that hug the mountains themselves._

'_These be' is a manner of incorrect speech pattern, I picked up from Ye Olde Renaissance Festival :p It just sounds delightfully common, uneducated yes, but a lot of people were back in the day. Recall Goldanna's "Thems at the castle!" ? : p If you weren't high-born or taught by high-borns or officials, it's likely there'd be errors in your speech, and you might not even know how to read or write. Just wanted to give you readers a heads up so you don't think things like that are typos, I've had that issue before in other stories, though those damn typos DO follow me around don't they? :p_

_I'm working on getting some commissioned portraits of King Alistair and Queen Gwyneth as they would appear in this story, long hair on Ali with the goatee and everything ;) The artist is very talented, and her portraits are amazingly realistic, so I'm hoping it works out, because I know I'd love to see the King and Queen of Ferelden brought to life. I'm sure you guys and gals would like visual imagery as well, so wish me luck, and send your internet cookies to the artist. ;) I'll let you all know, and put links up in my profile when they are ready._

_There have been a few reviewers that aren't so keen on the queen, and I want both them and any others out there that might feel the same, to know that that is perfectly fine. She is a character specifically created to not be such an easy person to like, and if you don't, please don't let it keep you from reviewing and giving some feedback. If everyone had the same taste in characters, the world would be a pretty boring place._

_I've used this French endearment in a previous chapter, but just in case . . ._

_Mon Amour = My Love._

_Thank you for stopping in. Watch out for low flying dragons!_

* * *

_**Chapter Eighteen:**_

_**A Staid Strength**_

* * *

_The world breaks everyone, and afterward, some are strong at the broken places._

_- - __Ernest Hemingway_

* * *

November 11'th, 9:30 Dragon Age

_**I**__t's cold with the icy promise of winter, the unfriendly waters of Redcliffe lapping against the old docks. A waft of musty wood goes up Alistair's nose and he crinkles it. Lake Calenhad is appropriately colored he thinks, dark grey beneath the clouds that hang above, as if in mourning of the dead that float in make-shift boats upon its surface. _So many dead_._

_Leliana begins to sing, a low keening sound at first, but it mellows out into something soft, the pitch of it sad and beautiful all at once. The villagers look at the Orlesian bard, surprised and then slowly accepting, bowing their heads. Some of them are crying, others merely staring out blankly to the unfeeling water, the final resting place of their loved ones._

_The voice of the gorgeous red-head sank into Alistair's skin and he sighed, turning his gaze toward her, finding the woman's eyes closed as her body slowly swayed to the tune of her own song. The words were in Elven, he thought, though he couldn't be sure. She sounded lovely and the Grey Warden smiled without realizing it, but for the small tugging at the corners of his wide mouth._

_Mist is rolling in across the water, dampening the air with the stink of salt water and fish. Flaming arrows are shot into the funeral boats, before the clinging fog can put them out. As the boats begin to burn, a new smell blends with the others. Burning bodies._

_A demon occupying the body of an innocent child, who summoned undead, nearly destroyed this town. Some of the victims were killed by walking corpses bearing the faces of their own families. People would speak of the horror to be found in nightmares, but Alistair had seen terror, and it was found not in dark dreamscapes, but in life._

_Young Connor Guerrein stands beside his mother, Isolde, both of them dressed in black. The Arlessa looks as if every last bit of emotion in her is drained out, as she places a hand about the back of her son's neck. The young lord looks aged by the events at Redcliffe, _too_ aged. He will be sent away soon, to the Circle Tower with barely any time given to recover from this event before he will find his limits tested by the Templars and Arch-magi. Alistair has met the First Enchanter, and Irving seems a decent sort, so he supposes he shouldn't be all that concerned for his adoptive cousin, but he is all the same._

_But at least he is alive and his mother is alive, now all they need do is save his father from Teyrn Loghain's poison. 'Suurree, no problem, easy as pie.' The former templar's voice even sounds sarcastic in the confines of his mind._

_Leliana has finished her song, and she turns to Alistair as the crowd gathered at the docks of Redcliffe begins to disperse. Crystal blue irises lock on to rich brown ones and the red-head bows her head shortly. There is a delicate smile on her face. As the Grey Warden draws closer, that smile changes to one just for him._

"_My Prince." The bard whispers cheekily under her breath and is rewarded by a light blushing in Alistair's cheeks. Her arm daintily curls around the one he offers as they begin the trek up the steep hill that leads to Redcliffe Castle._

"_I don't like that, Lel." Despite that, he holds his smile for her, the large windmill now looming at their backs._

"_You will get used to it, especially if I keep saying it, no?" She winked at him. Her joviality is lost for a moment in a drawn out sigh. "I keep trying to, how do you say? 'Keep my chin up' but things like this . . ." The bard waved out her free hand to encompass Redcliffe around her. "Even for my great love of the Maker, I do find myself wondering why he lets these things happen, why he just lets fate take its course."_

"_That I couldn't tell you, my dear. He and I never got along particularly well. I'm certain He is up there somewhere, watching, _maybe_ . . . but I believe he leaves us to take care of ourselves for a reason."_

"_What reason, mon amour?"_

"_He expects us to fail miserably and is waiting around to see if we can surprise him." Alistair grins at his beloved, earning a slap to his shoulder._

"_Oh, you! Be serious!" Leliana scolded the Grey Warden, but there was affection still in her thickly accented voice._

"_I _am_ serious. _Really_. I believe that the world is broken, that _people_ are broken, and we have to fix ourselves, because no one else will." His brown eyes looked behind him, to the wooden overhang that gave a view of the lake shore below and the castle on the cliffs beyond._

"_And when did you start believing _that_, hmm?" The Orlesian raised one copper brow._

"_After Ostagar." His face fell, but there was a new steel in his voice when the tall blonde spoke again. "I don't know that we will succeed, our group I mean, but we have to _try_, I know that much and at least today, there was a small victory here, wasn't there? We saved a little boy from dying. We saved a village from being destroyed."_

"You _saved a little boy from dying. If it wasn't for your persistence his mother would have sacrificed herself or we would have been forced to kill the poor lamb." Leliana tutted, closing her eyes to the memory._

"_I didn't act alone, you know that." Alistair was uncomfortable with the praise that she seemed to lavish upon him of late, not because he thought his lover was insincere, but moreover because the Warden did not believe he deserved it._

"_No, it was a group effort, it is true, yes, but you were a big part of that, no?" The bard's full lips pursed together as she placed one elegant finger against them. "You know something?" Her rich accent making it sound more like 'som-theeng' "With all this believing you are doing, perhaps you should begin to believe in _yourself_." At those words she flounced off, her swaying hips catching Alistair's eyes as she jogged to catch up with the very tall Sten. Off to tease him for the Qunari's softness towards Noble that day, like as not. It would make her feel better._

_The Grey Warden remained there for a moment, contemplating not the path he stood on, but the path of his _life_ and where it might lead him. Perhaps, Leliana had a point._

* * *

May 24'th, 9:31 Dragon Age

Evening cast long shadows across the fields of Brackenridge, the Dragon Hills that cradled the settlement, staying as watchful sentinels, quiet and steadfast, their mountainous brothers standing tall and lined in moonlit darkness at the back. It was here that the spirit of Nevil Willowbrook was sent to the Maker, his body burning upon a noble pyre, taking the king's cloak with it. Tall crackling flames seemed to weave gently, the low wind-like thrum of their fiery pulse relaxing in a way, as the villagers gathered around. Their faces were cast in orange, making all of those standing there seem as one.

The Knights of Denerim bowed their heads respectfully, to one that had died as they would want to, fighting at the king's side to defend Ferelden, even from the living nightmares that were darkspawn.

"Nevil Willowbrook was a good man, and a _strong_ man. There are many men who would not have been able to look upon such horrors and still thrust themselves ever forward, but goodman Willowbrook did. He stared evil in the face and said 'You shall not succeed here today! I will stop you!' He took down many darkspawn, and many more will yet be defeated in his memory." King Alistair raised his voice to give his speech and the timbre was both strong and inspiring. The blonde spoke words with a manner more fancy than he was used to, but the king found that they weren't as hard to say as he had feared.

He could feel the weight of his queen's palm in his own, their fingers twining together where anyone could see, because that was the point, Alistair knew. They had an image to maintain. Still, that she was beside him was of no small comfort as the king felt his nerves jumping madly beneath his skin. Alistair wanted to make sure he didn't slip up, say the wrong thing. Words of his passage through one village would quickly spread to another. If his short reign to date had taught one thing above all others, it would be thus; gossip moves like wildfire.

The widow Willowbrook stepped forward, her plump face marked by puffy eyes, red-rimmed in their crying state. To the woman's credit, her voice didn't falter, and save for a few sniffs it stayed that way.

"We had us some rows didn't we Nevil?" She smiled sadly, pushing back a wayward blonde curl. Some of the other villagers held looks of understanding. "When we were married, I had myself a fit, I didn't want to move here, get all lumped in with strangers. But these be my friends now, they was yours too, I know." Muriel hung her head, a hiccup of grief making her pause for a moment. She envied the king and queen, and their lot, for their educated words, but they weren't close to Nevil, _she_ was. In that, there could be no competition. "I came to love ye, Nevil, more than anyone that may have come before. You was my husband, how could I not in the end?"

King Alistair looked to his wife, finding her eyes on his own, a stark understanding between them. Not all marriages yielded love, noble unions least of all. Though he had once been considered one of them, the blonde royal found himself envying the commoners for the life destiny had put behind the young sovereign. They too may have wed for necessity but at least they had a freedom to have some choices in the spouses they took. For even though he and Gwyneth could have said no, in all reality, there really had not been a viable alternative. He turned his gaze back to the flames of the pyre, standing in silence.

After what seemed like hours, the funeral was over, Nevil sent to the Maker.

The fire died down, the acrid stench of it caught up in the scent of the flowers that were lain in a ring near the bottom of the pyre, wisps of smoke drawn away to the fields and distant hills by a mild May wind. Crickets had dared to come out into the long blades of grass at the boundaries of the small settlement, despite the unusual amount of activity from the humans that called Brackenridge home. _They were resilient, those crickets, and stubborn_. Alistair strode out into the grass, the tips dark against the light tan of his breeches. Behind him he heard the villagers getting ready to close up their homes for the night, after making much fuss to see to his own comfort and that of his wife.

As King of Ferelden, Alistair knew he would never be treated on equal with the simple folk of the country. Great pains and long years would be spent to make it any other way, and the blonde was not all that sure that even _then_, his efforts would effect much change. No one needed to tell him he was apart and above these folk, he could feel it in the way their eyes followed him around, falling to the ground when he went to meet the gazes of his people. It had been the same with Gwyneth. He recalled the mother in the wildflower field that afternoon, barely daring to say anything to the queen, and hurrying her daughter away.

Eamon had told him once that the folk of Ferelden were a hearty kind, brutish and rough when they needed to be, without a care for propriety. Alistair hadn't thought it such a bad thing, really. He was rough and tumble himself, after all. After that, however, the Arl of Redcliffe went on to say that the nobility would always be a different story, and that Alistair should remember that. At the time, the young stable boy felt curious as to why his adoptive uncle had pressed the point, but now he had an inkling. Somewhere inside Eamon's head, he knew that there may very well come a day when Alistair would have to assume the duty of the royal half of his blood, perhaps not as king, but in _some_ capacity. The arl had been readying him without the boy ever realizing it. _'Hope for the best, prepare for the worst, right Uncle?' _The man that now stood in Alistair's skin could recall the lessons he had taken, learning of history and literature, how to read, write, the ever dull and important arithmetic. Schooling that not many a commoner would undertake. _Yes, there had been preparation_.

Alistair sighed, pushing back one of the tight braids at the right side of his temple. Out there beyond the dark fields and the far mountains lay more of his land, his people, his kingdom. The tall king wanted to be angry at Eamon for his conniving ways, but there was yet a part of him that knew, if Eamon had _not_ been such a ruthless planner, Alistair might not be able to rule this country as Ferelden deserved. As the people of Brackenridge deserved. Once again he found himself not knowing what to feel about his uncle. There would always be that confounding mix of old hurts and old gratitude, and now this new paranoia that tickled Alistair behind his eyelids. A worry that he was not being made privy to all that he should. Eamon's failure to inform Alistair that he was going to marry the girl that Cailan would've taken to wife, for one.

Heading in that direction, thoughts of Eamon were replaced with thoughts of Gwyneth, and the king shifted on the balls of his feet, feeling immediately discomfited. His queen had not been lying, she had come to her marriage bed the same way she had left it, a virgin. Yet she was now one no longer, her blood and her pain had been proof enough of that, even for someone as inexperienced with female matters as Alistair had once been. If she had been Cailan's mistress, it was a non-physical affair, and the new king just couldn't see that happening. Alistair rubbed the back of his neck in a nervous gesture, glad for his minute solitude. Soon enough he'd be called back to the encampment set up in the village, but for now he had a moment to think. Tonight he'd be lain beside the red-headed vixen he'd married, and his discomfort would be ten fold.

He glanced behind him to the fire-pit set up for his retinue, after his blatant refusal of the mayor's offer of ousting his own family so the king could take residence in his home. Gwyneth had sent the king a pinched look for that, but Alistair did not yield. He may have been king, but that did not give him inalienable rights to force his people in discomfort for his own personal ease.

The queen was sat there, in one of two chairs that the mayor had procured. Alistair would've refused those as well, but at the toxic look in his wife's gaze, he didn't dare. Unless he had a desire to be filleted alive later, and he rather preferred his flesh to remain _on_ his bones.

Her posture was precise and rigid and Alistair found himself wondering about her. What was going on behind her eyes, what it was that drove the young woman. They had taken to sleeping together in the caravan wagon again at her behest back in Lothering, but no matter their physical proximity there always seemed to be something about Gwyneth that was unreachable. Something eerie, at times both vexing and frightening, but powerful and resilient. She stood with him and also apart from him, as much as the king now stood with and apart from his people.

She must have felt him looking, because her head turned, face limned with orange firelight. For a few passing moments she said nothing, but then one hand curled out as the queen beckoned him over. Alistair could've done with a whole evening of solitude, but he felt his feet moving toward his new wife.

"Everyone else but our guards have gone to sleep, and yet _you_ roam into the field. The people of Brackenridge will think you have come upon some grand plan that requires such long moments of private contemplation." Gwyneth's mouth turned up in one corner.

Alistair sighed, still feeling out place somehow, as if eyes peered fearfully at him from behind distant curtains. He shakes his head, forcing a wry humor that he does not feel. "Why do you assume I was thinking _anything_? Maybe I have an empty skull."

"No. You _don't_." Gwyneth stares him down and she will brook no argument to the contrary. He doesn't move or say anything, looking away into nothingness. "Have a seat, Alistair." Her head tilts to indicate the thick wooden chair beside her, but he doesn't sit.

"Doesn't it bother you, Gwyn? I mean . . ." He trailed off, taking to rubbing his neck again, the edges of his lengthening hair tickling his long fingers. "I am suppose to be serving Ferelden as its king, and these are my people, and they barely look at me. I want them to know that they are just as valued as the nobility, but they make it almost impossible. To add insult to injury, they throw themselves at my feet, almost. Dragging chairs out here so our _precious royal bottoms_ don't sit in the dirt as they would. For Maker's sake, the mayor was even going to sleep in his _stables_ so we could have _his_ house!"

Gwyneth folded her hands in her lap, managing to look regal even in traveling garb, or maybe it was just that she looked prim and conceited. Sometimes Alistair couldn't tell the difference. She gazed up at her husband, a short sigh escaping through her pressed lips. "This is the way of the world, you can't change it, Alistair. I know it's hard for you, but is it not better like this? Would you rather that they have disdain for you such as _some_ nobility do?"

"Like that _ass_, Ceorlic? No! Of course not! I . . . I just want them to feel like my equals." Furtive looks are sent behind him, leery of anyone overhearing, but there is no one. The village has long since fallen into slumber.

"But they aren't. _They_ don't have to run a country. _You_ do. The world is broken, Ferelden's structure is cracked, and the commoners can feel it. They look to you to be strong where they cannot, but in order to do that you must be above them, to see where the breaks are, so that you can fix them. The downside to that is that they can't feel comfortable with their savior, because you are just that, you _are _above them, and one cannot always be wont to crane their neck."

"And if I don't want to be their _savior_? What if I only want to be their _servant_?" Alistair thinks back to a conversation he had with Wynne, on the nature of kings. A pleasing discourse, when the elder mage told him that a _good_ king serves his people, and does not expect _them_ to serve _him_.

Gwyneth flicked her wrist. "So you are, but _also_ are you their leader, the king that is going to raise them from the ashes. You are the sun, and they dare not look too closely, and hope only that you will remain a beacon of light to glance upon shortly in these dark times." Such a thing would seem melodramatic to say, but the practiced noble tongue from her upbringing shows, and somehow the queen is able to keep the words sounding decent, perhaps even convincing.

Alistair smiled. "No wonder I let you figure out my speeches."

"Not always, there have been a few that were _all_ you." Whether that was a good or bad thing, Gwyneth refrained from saying.

"Hardly as wordy though."

"No, I suppose not." The queen's silver irises ticked back and forth as Alistair began to pace before her. After a few minutes of that, she lost her patience. "Alistair?"

"Yes?"

"Sit in the damned chair!"

The king glances at it as if the nondescript piece of furniture became a hissing snake. One finely booted foot steps back with a scuffling noise against the dirt. Then he dares to look at Gwyneth, the burning silverite in her eyes enough to make him prefer the chair to such a venomous gaze. Alistair all but dumps himself into the wooden seat, landing with an '_oof_!'

"I told you to _sit_ in the chair, not _break_ it." She smirks at him. "That would hardly help you earn the hearts of these people."

"What _will_ then?" The retort from the king is serious and is answered as such.

"It will take time, you understand, but you can't refuse their hospitality as you did today, otherwise you'll only offend them or make them worry that you are displeased with their offering."

"Offering?" Alistair's voice became exasperated. "Gwyn, it's not a _sacrifice_."

She shrugged, rubbing at her shoulder where it met her neck. "Just giving you my opinion."

"Well . . . thanks."

"You're welcome." Gwyneth fidgeted in the chair, taking to rubbing at her shoulder once more, twisting her neck in an attempt to crack it.

"Here," Alistair reached across the small space, his large hand dipping behind her neck to find where she'd been massaging herself. "If you take your index finger and your middle finger, and press hard right _there_. . ." He pressed the spot and there was a small cracking noise, and the sound of Gwyneth releasing a held breath. "See? I'm good for _something_ after all." The king beamed at his surprised queen, rather pleased with himself, though the physical contact made him feel nervous and he drew back from her quickly.

"So it would seem. How did you know to do that?"

"It's a stress pain, your muscles were too tense there. I've had that problem a lot, Duncan actually taught me how to get rid of it." The king's smile became a light frown and he turned away from his queen, pinching the bridge of his nose. His voice was gravelly now, something raw left in it. "I . . . I'm sorry, I kept getting upset and it . . . I should be over it."

"Should you, my king?" Gwyneth gave him one of her self-assured smiles, the kind that left her eyes bare, but her words sounded sincere. She sighed. "No, your grief is your own, do not be ashamed for it. Just make sure our people don't see you, and I suppose that's what I'm here for, to help you succeed as king. So if that means that I listen to your sorrows, than that too is my duty and I won't shirk from it."

Alistair nodded slowly, drawing in a deep steadying breath. "Why were _you_ out here, still up?"

"Hmm, ah, well you know what I said about not sleeping very well alone?"

"Yeess . . ."

"I meant it."

The king felt a warmth suffusing his gut at that and he smiled, reaching out for her shoulder, but she stood up before he could do so.

Gwyneth fixed him with a serious look. "Shall we go to sleep then? We aren't back at Denerim _yet_."

Alistair pressed his palms against his knees, brown eyes nearly amber from the glow of the fire. Still he found a slight bile burning in the pit of his stomach at the thought, his nerves all but shot when he was laying next to her, something that had been innocuous before their return to Ostagar, and now had the unpleasant weight of disquiet about it. He stood slowly, returning the staid strength in his wife's gaze with some of his own, because _her_ duty was _his_ duty and Alistair was tired of being outdone by Gwyneth. The king would show her that she was not the only one capable of putting all but duty and necessity to the back of the mind. "If it's my _queen's_ wish, it's _my_ command." An arm was slung out, indicating the covered wagon at the center of the caravan circle. "Ladies first."

* * *

Two more days of travel saw the king's retinue closing in on their destination, but neither the king or the queen are resting well this morning, it seems.

Someone is screaming, thrashing around beside him and Alistair sits up with a jolt, banging his head against the wagon's roof.

"Ouch! Damn it!" He rubs his sore skull through his thick blonde hair, adjusting to the lack of light in the wagon. The king's sleepy mind takes a moment to figure things out, not helped by the building headache he now has.

Gwyneth is all but shrieking, making the wagon creak and shake with her thrashing, her bedroll tangled around her legs.

"Hey . . . Hey, Gwyn, wake up. Gwyn!" Alistair grabs her and tries to shake her awake.

The redhead's eyes come open and she is quiet for only a few seconds before she takes to beating against her husband with her curled hands. "No! No! Get away from me! Leave me alone! Why can't you leave me alone? What do you want from me?" She screams at him, trying to twist away when he grabs her wrists and holds her.

"It's alright Gwyn, it's only me. It's okay now, it was just a bad dream." Her blows against him hurt, but not terribly so, and he can tell she is delirious from sleep-induced fear.

Finally she begins to calm, taking slow ragged breaths in, her face puffy from tears of frustration and fright. "Alistair?" Her voice is low, but rough, the queen's throat raw from her shrieking. Gwyneth's fingers uncurl to lay harmlessly against her husband's cotton tunic. When he nods, and answers in the affirmative she feels the gentle rumble of his voice through her collar bones where she is lain against him, her wrists still in his grasp.

"A bad one was it?" The question comes almost automatically, for it is clear that it was indeed quite bad. He lets her arms fall down to her sides and she pulls back from him to wipe a palm across her clammy forehead.

"I - I am sorry, for carrying on like that. I'm fair certain the knights must have heard and . . . Oh Lord, what will I _say_?" The posh lilt of Gwyneth's voice carries the higher tenor of her worry.

The king almost chuckled in spite of himself. "Everyone has nightmares Gwyn, I'm sure it's fine." There was the shuffling noise of the finely woven bedroll against the softer material of Alistair's tunic and breeches.

A dim blue is seeping through the canvas hanging over the back of the wagon, looking even lighter through the thin slit in the material. Dawn was coming and the day would see them arrived in Denerim. Just for a short while and then it was off again to meet the Grey Wardens from Orlais at Amaranthine. They would've arrived back at the capital yesterday if not for the queen's insistence that she was tired and needed rest before traveling again.

Alistair moved to pull the flaps apart and peered outside, closing one brown eye so he could squint with the other. Outside the knights were already roused and appeared to be eating breakfast. It was their way, a code of conduct passed down through generations of the knighted. They had to be up an about early, when they were on service as the Honor Guard, so that when their soveregin was awake, he could be properly taken care of.

"It's about time to get up anyway." The king shrugged and started rooting around for his boots where he'd tucked them into a corner of the covered wagon. His wife's grip on his forearm made him pause.

"Just a bit longer." Gwyneth bites her lip, feeling oddly shy as she did a few days ago, and none too willing to tell Alistair why she has a sudden fear of being alone, and the desire to remain cloistered and hidden in the wagon still. She hopes he won't ask about her nightmare or her behavior. From beneath thick lashes the redhead watches the king as he raises a dark blonde brow, but blessedly, he does not ask the questions she isn't ready to answer.

"Well, _you_ can stay in here if you like. _I'm_ hungry though and . . ." Again the king is halted by his queen's unwavering grip.

She isn't looking at him now, her lip still caught between her teeth. "Stay with me, please." The note of beggary in her voice is foreign and odd and the pair of them both are startled to hear it, Gwyneth more so since it came from _her_ mouth. '_I'm being weak, afraid of a nightmare, like a child!' _She wants to scold herself, but she can't. For once it is not _Alistair_ that needs _her_, it is _Gwyneth_ that needs _him_.

"Why would you . . ." Almost beginning to ask the reason behind her clinginess this morning, he stops himself. There is something about Gwyneth that softens him, maybe it is the obvious fear on her face, lingering from whatever nightmare that held her in its grip. Maybe it's that this is rare, her need for comforting and Alistair wants to enjoy a reprieve from her abrasiveness. "Alright, just for a while."

They settle back down into their bedrolls and as Gwyneth lays there, she cannot help but be grateful for the change in Alistair. He is strong now, where one he was weakened, and this morning he is stronger than her. A legitimate smile brightens her face in the dark wagon, her voice breaking the quiet they have fallen into. "Thank you . . . husband."

For a few moments Alistair says nothing, then . . . "You're welcome, wife."


	19. Chapter 19: For Your Consideration

**Disclaimer:** _"Dragon Age: Origins" and all its expansions and additional content is the property of Bioware and EA Games. Large portions of written content within the game, as well as Dragon's Age: The Stolen Throne, and Dragon's Age: Calling, are the creation of David Gaider. Original scenarios and characters are used under the creative license of the writer, ItalianEmpress1985. No profit is being made and the following story is for entertainment purposes only._

* * *

**Words From The Author**_**: **__I hadn't realized that the king and queen have been gone from Denerim for TWO weeks, but I went back to check and sure enough, they left Denerim on May 12'th and have not arrived back until May 26'th. The trip took awhile eh? :p And that was WITH a caravan. It occurs to me now why it took so long to travel during the Blight._

_This chapter took a bit longer to put up because I wanted to wait until my commissioned portraits were done. So, on that note . . . _

_SPECIAL NOTE__: I have two commissioned very serious and regal portraits of the King and Queen of Ferelden for your viewing pleasure. I toyed with the idea of having Gwyn's trademark smirk of "I-am-so-hotter-than-thou" but in the end, it was more suitable to have their royal portraits be serious like medieval portraits were in real life. Alistair looks a tiny bit like his Uncle Teagan, but I think that's just the hairstyle and that charming little goatee. Props go to the ever amazing Vana, who manages to retain the characters likeness from a game and make them look like real people. I've put the link in my profile listed under 'Extras' so PLEASE go check them out and make sure you leave some comments for the artist on her DeviantArt page, if you're of the mind, because she deserves the love._

_Many thanks also to the very special gentleman that __paid__ for those commissions. Not quite __flowers__ and red wine, but a VERY nice gesture all the same._

_Thank you for stopping in. Watch out for low flying dragons!_

* * *

_**Chapter Nineteen: **_

_**For Your Consideration**_

* * *

May 26'th, 9:31 Dragon Age

**M**argaret hummed a simple madrigal as she went about her work as one of the palace's scullery maids. It was late in the afternoon and she had drawn the short stick for the duties of clean up. Everything had to be spotless and ready for when Mistress Ayin would begin preparations for the welcome dinner for their sovereigns later this evening. Steward Eamon had made the announcement from the throne room gallery as the palace staff was collected. After lunch was over the other maids had taken off for their own much simpler course, leaving Margaret alone.

The willowy girl didn't mind her duty so badly, the kitchens smelled still of the pastries that had been baked in them that morning. She pressed a hip against the swinging pantry door, her hands laden with three flour sacks. With a swipe of her brow, Margaret tried not to sneeze from the escaped powder on her face. Taking a breath she laid the flour sacks down with their neighbors on the shelves at one corner of the small room, and made for the heavy door that led to the wine cellar. The King and Queen of Ferelden had very specific wines they both enjoyed, though between Margaret and the pantry, she thought Queen Gwyneth was a bit snootier about it.

Each step had to be taken carefully when they were damp as they had been for the past two weeks. "The pretty little miss says 'nay good ser' and that good ser fancies for this miss, who says to she 'how can ye refuse me?' To him this lass sings 'Cause me mum taught me the birds and the bees, yes seree, Cause me mum taught me to say nay for my virtue done had, Cause me mum taught . . .me . ." Margaret's song cut off as she came to a halt at the bottom of the steps.

A cloaked lady stood there by the racks that held Queen Gwyneth's Tevinter vintages. One of the woman's hands was hovered over the bottles, a whispered and eerie incantation passing through her lips. She turned her head, eyes glowing hot and white beneath the rim of her dark cowl.

Margaret's gaze went wide as saucers looking across the dimly lit wine cellar at the cloaked figure there, and then wider still in recognition when the figure turned and made their face plain. "What are you doing to the wine, milady?" Margaret's voice goes up an octave as the woman drops her hand and a sprinkling of dark petals fall from it. "That's the _queen's_ wine!" The scullery maid goes to reach for the bottles, instinct making her nerves scream to know what has been done to them, but instinct it seems has failed her.

With her free hand, the woman in the cloak presses her fingers outward, white eyes narrowing. More of the strange ancient tongue causes a small pulsing wave to push back at Margaret and send the poor maid to the floor. Startled the young woman gets to her feet slowly, watching the mage with a panicked caution, afraid to speak, afraid to move, afraid _not_ to move.

"I really wish you hadn't come down here, Margaret." The other woman seemed sincerely apologetic, her voice in perfect Fereldish. A lick of flame is produced in her hand, dark purple and unnatural and Margaret shrieks.

"Witch! Witch! Guards!" She gathers her common skirts and dashes for the stairs but a long rope of energy winds around her neck and yanks the woman down to the stone, taking her breath away. Margaret draws back in fear as the cloaked lady comes closer. "Please, please don't hurt me!"

"I'm sorry." The mage grimaces as she sets the screaming woman to blaze, Margaret's dying, writhing shrieks swallowed up as a spell of silence envelopes the room.

* * *

"Make way for His Majesty, King Alistair Theirin!" The barking command from the royal guard issues at the city gates, their tall and foreboding iron-work frames creaking open from where a small host of men atop the wall grunt and pull at large gears to part them. Sunset is at the backs of the royal retinue, all of them, from knight to king to horse, looking wearied of their travel.

The fancy trunk containing the late King Cailan's belongings had been covered with one of the canvas tops for the wagons. Inflaming curiosity perhaps, but not drawing nearly as much attention from ne'er do wells as an ornate chest would.

Lightly ringed hands grasp the stein that holds Cailan's ashes, their owner trying to smile at the citizenry of Denerim that have paused in their duties to watch their sovereign's return to the capital. Alistair leans into the padded seat-back at the front of the fancy wagon. He feels uncomfortably exposed for the first time in awhile, and it strikes the king suddenly, that he had begun to get used to life in the wide public eye. Though certainly he hadn't come to care for it anymore than he did when he was first crowned.

People watch, a few with smiles, but far more are those that look unhappy and guarded, eyes narrowed but not enough to get the unwanted interest of the guards. In days of a king's early rule, the royal guardians seem almost paranoid at avoiding any assassin, and every wayward eye or wrong move could spark their attention. Considering the fact that his head is still attached to his neck, Alistair supposes he is somewhat grateful for that, but only just. Another part of the blonde will never feel like a king, he doesn't think, that place in his heart that travels with Leliana always, a path of love and freedom, both of which he lives a life bereft of now.

Still, he seems to recall that most of his subjects had been friendlier of face before. Perhaps not jubilant towards their new king, but at least optimistic. Alistair thinks back to the people of Brackenridge, who surely had appeared cowed by his visit just as they had stared in minute awe. Amongst the commoners of the capital, there is no awe, only that look of being subdued matched by ever dour eyes. Things had not gone smashingly while he was away, apparently.

Gwyneth sat beside him, an austere and graceful figure in her fine leather armor, polished to perfection before they entered the gates. Even for her weariness, the queen had found time for that, because Gwyneth _always_ found time for her appearance. The king had never met anyone so obsessed with how they looked until he had met his queen. For her part, the red-head was finding it hard to smile, the false curve of her lips only half-hearted. She too noticed the surprisingly chilly reception, but had enough grace to react to it no more than that weak smile.

The palace loomed before them, their home and yet it felt like returning to a prison for Alistair. Peace he had sought in secret during their journey to Ostagar, but peace he had not found, and yet still there was an elusive latitude to be had. He was king out there as he was king here, but the onus was not quite so heavy as it was within the capital, within the mortar, stone and wood of the royal castle.

It was the queen that was so taken with re-decorating, rabid at the meetings in the council chamber as to ways to increase Ferelden's income and line the royal coffer. More money for more upgrades. But suddenly, as King Alistair looked up at the daunting palace, he found that _he_ might like some changes too, something that would make the structure feel more like a home and less a well kept fortress. He thinks to the grand ballroom of his half brother's design and vision. If Cailan had lived, the whole palace may have had that sweeping look of grandeur. What if Cailan had been right, what if _Gwyneth_ was right, that the people of Ferelden _could_ be elegant? Brown eyes closed as Alistair tried to imagine it, but he found that he couldn't without chuckling at the image of Arl Eamon walking about with a frilly feathered waistcoat from Orlais.

Gwyneth turned to quirk a brow at her husband. He seemed pleased about something, but whatever it was he kept it to himself as their retinue made it within the palace gates.

* * *

"We have not received word from Amaranthine in a little over a week. The city was getting emergency grain stores from a Lord Eddelbrek and those belonging to his farming association. Since there has been no contact, your subjects have gone without fresh bread in just as long." Arl Eamon, Steward of the Crown, leaned back into the chair, his hands folded together against the edge of the table, blue-green eyes watching Alistair pace back and forth in the office afforded to the man's position.

"What of Denerim's _own_ stores, was there _nothing_?" The young king takes the bridge of his nose, rubbing it between his thumb and forefinger, feeling a tension headache beginning behind his eyes.

"Do you think I would have not used what we had left? No, Alistair, it's gone. There wasn't much to begin with, the darkspawn burned most of the city and incidentally many of the emergency stores that were located throughout." A few more streaks of silver had grown in Eamon's iron gray hair, a sign of not only age but the stress of holding the positions of both Arl and Steward of the Crown. "They think that you would rather go off and travel than stay and make sure they are fed. It's hurting your image with the commoners."

"Travel? Like what? For _leisure_! I was _fighting darkspawn_, I was out there _protecting_ those ungrateful snipes!" Alistair felt his temper rising, all the issues that had happened over the past few weeks and beyond, coalescing in his brain. That burning sensation of the man's rapidly rising temper was throbbing beneath his skin.

"Ungrateful snipes? Where on Thedas did _that_ come from?"

The accusing tone from Eamon made Alistair flinch in remembered discomfort at the way his queen talked about commoners. A way he swore he would never do, and yet, just had.

"They are _your people_, and though it certainly bothers me that they are so suspicious, considering all that has happened to them, it isn't completely outside the realm of understanding that they would feel so taxed." Eamon lowered his own voice, speaking with the timbre that had usually served to calm Alistair's tantrums as a boy.

The king sighed, taking a hard seat in the chair across the desk from the arl. "Yes, yes I know . . . I'm just so . . . _frustrated_! I'm trying to make decisions that will protect Ferelden and I return home only to find that everyone hates me anyway."

Eamon studied his nephew for a time. "These are dark times, and no one ever said being king would be an easy task, but together we will get past this. I consider it my solemn duty to help you."

"As my steward?"

"Yes, and as your uncle." Eamon smiled and reached across the desk to pat Alistair on the hand, noting how warm the young man's skin was compared to his own. The arl could feel his age, seeping as an inescapable coldness down through his veins to his very bones. It was times like that where he could sympathize with Mistress Wynne the most, some bonding occurring between them in the sovereigns absence, talk about their own mortality. Isolde and Conner would continue on without Eamon, Teagan would make a fine successor, but such thoughts did little to ease his troubled mind.

He waited for the slow returning smile from Alistair but it didn't come, instead the blonde scowled.

"My . . . _uncle_, yes, and so generous a one you are, that you couldn't be bothered to tell me that Gwyneth was going to marry my brother." Alistair's tone was calm, but angry, the low rumble of it like an approaching storm.

Eamon closed his eyes, a slow groan escaping him. "Alistair . . . "

"I had a right to know, I had a _right_." The king glared at his steward. "Oh I'm angry with Gwyn, but at least I can understand why _she_ might not have said anything, she's _always_ been prickly with me when it comes to discussing her personal life, and I've accepted that she is a _distant_ woman . . ." Alistair trailed off, uniformly unhappy as Eamon wrinkled his nose at the displeasing admission. "But _you_ . . . Ever have you been an uncle to me, even those horrible years in the chantry when I convinced myself that I hated you. How could you _not tell me _that I was marrying the woman that my _dead brother _would've taken to wife? Do you have any idea how that makes me feel?"

"You are worried that she wasn't a maiden when she married you?"

"No! For Maker's sake, do you think I really care about _that_? I know it's usual for men to have mistresses before and after marriage, and that it isn't nearly as acceptable for _women_ to do the same, but _I'm_ not like that Eamon. _I'm_ not a _hypocrite_!"

"I'm not saying you are, I'm just saying it is natural if you were to be concerned you were marrying Cailan's mistress. I have thought about that, I have, and Gwyneth claims she was not, but even if she _was_ . . ."

"She wasn't. I'm certain." The blonde's brows seemed to lower in on his eyes, making them look darker. "If she was, it wasn't a physical relationship, and I'm sorry, but I just can't see that happening."

"What do you mean, 'you're certain'?" Eamon cautiously ventured.

"Do I _really_ need to go into detail here?" A look of embarrassment and disbelief at his uncle's confusion. With a heavy sigh, he brushed one of the wayward braids back, where it decorated his dark golden locks against his temple. "Gwyneth was kept as the Maker and her own mother bade her to be, in her own words, and I can _personally_ attest to the fact. Good enough for you?"

Eamon hadn't seen the maiden's sheets hanging outside after the pair of them were married, but of course he had heard the confirmation. Still, Gwyneth was a wily girl and she wouldn't be the first bride to go to extreme lengths to preserve the illusion of virginity that she no longer possessed. Far more proof was the slight coloring of Alistair's cheeks and the surety of his words. "I . . . ah, yes. I understand."

As a silence enveloped the pair, Alistair felt himself wanting once more to wish all of it away, but of course he couldn't. This was his life, for ill or good. "Don't think that's the end of it, I want to know why you didn't tell me."

The arl sighed and wiped his face with an aging palm. "My boy, you may not like to hear this, but you didn't _need_ to know, it wouldn't have done you any good. What benefit do you have from knowing _now_, tell me that, what good has it done now that you're aware?"

Alistair didn't answer the question, instead almost snarling at his adopted uncle. "That's not the point! The _point is_ that you are my steward, Gwyneth is my queen and the both of you think it's entirely acceptable to keep things from me, you don't even give me the benefit of a doubt that I could handle it! Well I _won't_ have it, Eamon! I am the King of Ferelden, by _your machinations_ and now you can live with those consequences, because I won't be a _puppet_ king. I'm going to take my duty solemnly and seriously , and from now on you tell me these kinds of things, even if you think I won't like it, you _tell_ me!"

A knock came at the door, a timid serving boy sticking his head in. "Dinner is ready, Milord Steward, Your Majesty."

"Couldn't you tell we were having a conversation!" Eamon barked, the temper that would've been directed at his nephew, instead turned on the unfortunate servant.

Alistair held out a hand, and any further discourse ceased. He nodded at the boy. "That's alright, I think everything has been said that needs saying." A severe glance was turned Eamon's way before the king put a fake smile on his face, for the nervous servant. "We'll be there shortly. Tell Her Majesty and the maids that I'll have some of _her_ wine, I'm in the mood for something stronger tonight."

* * *

Dinner had been a quiet and tense affair, everyone's minds thick with thought. King Cailan would have a second funeral service now that his remains had been recovered. It was to be held in kind with the funeral of Ser Elvorn who was lost at Ostagar during the current king's trip there. He was named after his grandfather, a mage of some repute that had compiled a grand bestiary, but it was for his own accomplishments that the fallen Knight of Denerim would be remembered. Just as it was for Cailan's own glory that the late sovereign's service would proceed. Maric's shadow wouldn't be in sight, for better or worse. Gwyneth had taken that in hand as Alistair was left to plan for the trip to Amaranthine.

It was a surprising decision on the queen's part, to hold both services together, but Alistair hadn't the time or current inclination to discuss it with her yet.

He didn't much like leaving all the sorrowful business of funerals to Gwyn, but since Alistair himself was over-burdened with the Wardens' arrival in Amaranthine and the meeting there, he could barely think of anything else. What would be said to convince Lord Caron as to how both Alistair and Gwyneth had survived an archdemon, and the king really doubted '_yeah, you know I just had to father a demon baby with an apostate using blood magic, no big deal_' would go over well. With his departure, Wynne would be leaving them, and as much as Alistair wanted her to stay, the elderly mage had made her case and he couldn't argue with her. With her leaving, however, the king was reminded of the loneliness that seemed to encompass his life anymore. Surrounded by servants and still he had no friends once Wynne was gone. His own wife had ceased to be anything beyond that in name, and Alistair couldn't really call either of his uncles his 'friends'.

As the tall blonde made strides down the long hall that led to the royal apartments, and his bedchamber, the cloying strangling thoughts of the dead and the absent made his steps heavier. When the young king finally reached the door to his room, his shoulders were slumped from such imagined weight.

A slow boiling resentment was in him at news of the people's malcontent, and the sovereign found himself recalling words between himself and his queen. She had asked if it wasn't better to be feared than despised, in so many words. Under the circumstances, Alistair found himself thinking that, yes, it was. A guilty mind was heavy with that realization as he opened the door. The nights were getting warmer and even the normally cool bedchamber hit him with the collected humidity of the day.

"Gwyn?" He knew she had retired earlier than he did, a haunted sadness on her face that insisted she needed time alone. There was much to discuss, but considering what had happened the few times Alistair had interrupted her desired solitude, he was more than willing to give her space. _Surely she would've done her thinking by now, though_. "Where _are_ you?"

The room was dim, the only light coming from one oil lamp sitting next to the royal bed. A light wind was blowing through the balcony doors, making shapes against the patterned silk paper of the walls with the flickering orange illumination. A thin sliver of moon was out, and it lined the queen's frame from where she stood outside, watching Denerim from her high perch. _Queen of all she surveys_.

For a moment Alistair just stared. Gwyneth was wearing a rather diaphanous ivory sleeping gown, thin and light so she wouldn't get overheated when she finally went to bed. It wasn't very decent for outside the bedchamber, but then at the height of the balcony, no one could really see their queen all that clearly. The king, however, could, and he took full advantage despite himself. She was of incomparable beauty, his once comrade and current wife, and Alistair wondered how his half-brother would've seen her. _As the oft times eerie and self assured noblewoman, or as a fine trophy to hang off his arm_? From what little Alistair knew of Cailan, it would've seemed more the latter, but Gwyneth said he'd loved her and that should have changed things, _if_ it was true.

The young king had a hard time imagining glory-hound Cailan in love with someone more than he had appeared to be in love with _himself_, and an even harder time imagining the conceited and self-serving Gwyneth in love with _anyone_. She'd admitted to some feelings for Morrigan, and there was a look on her face that said the same in regards to Cailan, _but it wasn't the same thing as being _in love_, was it_? Still, stranger things had happened. _What would she have been like, Gwyneth? Sweet on someone?_ Alistair didn't know, and there was a displeased part of himself that knew he probably never would.

As the young queen stood, elbows against the thick stone of the balcony's edging, lost to her own thoughts, she was the image of regality. Though even for her beauty, she still seemed ever cold and distant and it was hard for Alistair to remember that they had ever been friends, but they _had_ been. _Once upon a time_, expect this was no fairy tale. He cleared his throat and she turned, to show a half-full wine goblet in one long fingered hand. The moonlight fell on her wedding band, and Alistair spared it a glance, the king's own burning on his finger in his imagination.

"Are you alright?" He asked of his queen, but he almost could've been asking himself. "You didn't answer me when I came in."

"I'm fine, today has just been . . .disheartening." There's a long sad sigh there and Gwyneth takes a deep gulp of her wine, dainty pretense left behind. Those thin lips opened for a second before closing again, swallowing up whatever she was going to say, and a fake smile was created instead. "Dinner felt very heavy didn't it? I noticed you and Eamon barely spoke two words to one another. Did something happen?" The fake smile is replaced with a look of interest as she faces her king.

For a moment he considered not telling her, let Gwyn be the one left wondering, but the intensity of her ceaseless staring finally drew it from him. Like puss from a wound, his anger spilled out. "He tells me '_you didn't _need_ to know_' I'm the _bloody King of fucking Ferelden_, and I don't need to know! How am I to get my subjects to respect my authority if my own queen and steward don't respect it?" When Gwyneth grimaced he realized he'd said it all right there, forgetting that he was speaking to one of the culprits, in a need just to vent his frustration. "Gwyn, look, I didn't mean . . ."

"No, no . . . I . . . " She paused, considering her words with a large sigh. "I don't want to fight with you, not after we _just_ managed to pull ourselves back from the precipice." One dark red brow went up. "I am curious however as to _what _it is he thought you _didn't need to know_."

Alistair could've slapped his forehead. In his haste to be done with his annoyance he cleanly lost sight that Gwyneth wasn't actually _there_ for that conversation. He almost didn't want to say anything _now_, knowing it was a touchy subject, but he did anyway. "We were arguing about why he never informed me that you would have been in an arranged union with Cailan, before me."

The pregnant silence that always seemed to precipitate either one of the pair's arguments, or a heavy admission, once again enveloped the space between the royals. Alistair stood in the undulating shadows of the bedchamber, while Gwyneth remained on the moonlit balcony. She blinked. Once. Twice. Followed by a deep breath.

"Why does that bother you?" She asked of the tall blonde situated opposite of her in nearly every way.

Alistair started for a moment, expecting a tirade, but there was no recrimination in the red head's voice, just a stark curiosity. "Why does it bother me that no one told me until _you_ accidentally let it slip in Ostagar? I would think that was obvious."

One hand waved him off, as Gwyneth produced an unladylike snort. "No, I'm quite intelligent you know, I think I've figured that part out on my own." Before Alistair could say anything, she continued. "I mean why does it bother you that I would have likely married Cailan, had he survived?"

"I . . . it doesn't." Alistair crossed his arms across his chest in a petulant stance he hadn't taken in some time. He recalled Wynne telling him it looked too childish and he was better than that. But Wynne wasn't here, and so he remained that way, daring Gwyn to argue the point. "I don't give a fig about that."

"Don't you?" There was something knowing in her tone, even as she left things unspoken.

"No." It came defensive.

"Your reaction at Ostagar might've suggested otherwise, and quite frankly I don't see how it should matter to you. I have grieved as I needed to, tomorrow we put him to his rest, and as things turned out I did _not_ marry Cailan, I married _you_. The public doesn't know of that lost plan, Hell, _I_ didn't even know until Eamon confirmed my suspicions before I agreed to the union with you." At her explanation, Gwyneth heard a grumble under Alistair's breath, but she surged forward. Let it never be said that a Cousland failed to keep the high ground. "Once I may have yearned for it, though when Cailan became my friend I did so no longer, as I know I told you, but what _might_ have been has no bearing on our agreement."

"_Agreement_? I thought it was a _marriage_." The king's dark blond brows came together above his shadowed brown eyes.

"Is that not what it was? An agreement between two comrades to continue serving their country beside one another, until death parts us? A pact, as it were, made under the Maker and sundry." Gwyneth took a large swig of her wine, hardly a dainty sip that she normally would've done.

The bitterness that had seeped into the young woman's tone was obvious, and though it likely could've made Alistair angry it only made him sad, an effect that was reflected on his wife. "I hate how that sounds. It's depressing."

"Yes, at times." The queen finished her wine, finally stepping away from the balcony to come into the room, where she sat the now empty glass on the bedside table. "But it is what it is. Only disappointment can be gained by pretending otherwise." Bitterness had become resignation as she walked to the bed, expecting that Alistair wouldn't answer her question, having thoroughly routed away from it.

Surprisingly he did.

"I don't know . . . I don't know why it bothers me, it just does. Some morning I could wake up to the horrible realization that I'm playing dress-up with Cailan's life. _His_ armor, _his_ bride, _his_ room, _his_ crown. Then there _you'll_ be, wishing it _was_ Cailan, because you think _I'm_ just a shadow." He rubbed a large hand against his neck, feeling uncomfortably vulnerable as Gwyneth had stopped to look at him.

"You are hardly a thing like him in more than looks and even those seem quite changed now. Have you glanced at yourself in a mirror lately? Cailan was much prettier."

"Oh thanks, great, thank you, that makes me feel _sooo_ much better." The young king groaned, shaking his head ruefully and fixing his queen with a sour look. "You're really awful at pep talks."

"I never said I was anything other." It came with a salacious grin.

"Were you in love with him?" The question _was_ from Alistair's lips, there was no doubt of that, but he could scarcely believe it escaped the confines of his mind. It was all safely tucked away in there and everything and then . . . _Oops_.

Silver eyes narrowed into the dangerous dagger like slits they'd always managed to create. "I beg your pardon?"

"You said Cailan would've married you and loved you, and I can tell that you cared a great deal for him. Were _you_ in love with _him_? Were you in love with _Morrigan_? Have you ever been in love with _anyone_?" He'd already gone too far to stop now.

Gwyneth spluttered at that and made as if she was going to grab her empty goblet and throw it at him. Her nostrils flared in time with the sudden heaving of her shoulders. A '_how dare you_!' was ready on the tip of her tongue. Alistair squared his frame, matching her stare for glare. The queen's shoulders then sank and she backed down, something having softened her anger, that went unsaid.

She thinks back to the day before they left for Ostagar, a bath that had yielded a revelation of love for Cailan, but _now_ for all the grief she had felt she found herself uncertain yet again. The former Cousland had long thought love to be a ridiculous indulgence of boundless fancy that one had failed to keep in check. The only love that blossomed and bloomed yearly with genuine feeling, was that held for family, a sentiment held dear by a bond of blood and relation. Noble was a Mabari, but Gwyneth's love for a creature she had taken in as one would a child (albeit a warrior of a beast) had been far more than she _ever_ felt for the noble boys she had made virginal attempts at seducing.

That Cailan was much beloved, was not in question, but to answer that she was _in_ love with the late king was an admittance that Gwyneth found herself unable to make this time around.

Her thoughts then passed to Morrigan, of secret fancy and deep kinship beyond the confines of shared blood. Once she had thought the witch an almost-sister, _and yet was that alone not strange_? Considering the differences between them, it assuredly was, and yet there could be no doubt that they were dear friends. The dark promise the two women made together, and the result of that, wouldn't have been so if not for that strange bond. Still, that feeling of kinship became something else, and Gwyneth had never had feelings for another woman until Morrigan, and there was a part of her that feared she had fallen into a shameful trap. That of the childish desire to want what one cannot have, and to only yearn for it when it is out of reach, for once you got it, you were set to not want it any longer. _Was it that instead that made Gwyneth think those feelings and desires may have been a _romantic_ love? Was it merely there because it was wrong and forbidden?_

Gwyneth's voice fell, and the feeling that her body was about to do the same caused the young redhead to let herself drop onto the large bed beside her. "I . . . I don't know."

Alistair felt a terrible biting pit forming in his gut and his heart sank in tandem. "Gwyn, I'm _sorry_. I didn't . . . I shouldn't have asked that."

"No, probably not. People should be allowed secrets." Her anger tries to swell up again but she's just too damned tired.

"Secrets are dangerous, Gwyn, I've kept things to myself and the guilt eats at me _all_ the time."

"Is that why you expected Eamon and I to tell you of Cailan and the plans he and my parents would have acted upon, had things turned out differently? Because you expect _we_ will feel guilty, as _you_ do?"

"Maybe. I don't know, really. All I know is that if I am to be the good King that Ferelden deserves, that I am going to need support, _trusted_ support."

"And you think full disclosure will create such a base of trust? I assume then that you told Eamon of the difficulties and unlikelihood that you and I will ever conceive an heir together?" The queen had settled on frankness, the uncomfortable side of honesty.

"Well, no, not exactly."

"So you're a hypocrite then?"

"I am _not_!" He glared at her, unclasping the cloak he'd been wearing all day, to toss it across the dresser. "If I went and told him _that_ he probably would pressure me to choose another wife. Whose side are you on anyway?"

Gwyneth took the pins out of her hair, letting it flow free in a thick crimson curtain. Her movements were calculated and precise, the 'ping ping' of the pins hitting the dish they were put in the only accompaniment to her voice. "I'm not on any _one single person's_ side. I merely am stating things for your consideration. Think on what you feel and what you say, and know that they cannot always be the same. There _cannot_ be complete honesty, there _are_ secrets that _must_ be kept. You know that as well as I."

"Two weeks ago you didn't seem too keen on Eamon, and now you're defending his position in this." The low timbre of Alistair's voice kept him from yelling, even as his anger built upon itself.

"I told you then that I liked him just fine, and I still do. This isn't about my personal opinion of him, I'm speaking from a position of duty, as _you_ should. You let your emotions steer you when you shouldn't."

"And _you_ don't?" Alistair had gone behind the screen to change into his sleeping tunic, and swore when the laces at the front got caught on his hair. He came out frustrated, glaring at his wife, as she sat there under the covers as demure as you please. Which of course only irritated him further.

"Not all that often." She defended succinctly.

"_Really? _But you were up here crying over a man that you don't know if you loved or not." As he drew near the bed he saw her flinch and it almost softened him . . . almost.

"Is _that_ what you thought I was doing?"

"You deny it?"

"Yes!"

"Then why did you shut yourself up in here for hours on end after dinner, drinking too much wine?" He made certain he sounded accusing, giving her a taste of the treatment she had bestowed on him.

"I'm not _drunk_, Alistair, and you drank quite a bit _yourself_." She glowered, pouting at him.

"Just answer the question Gwyn."

"What if I don't?"

"Gwyn-eth." Alistair's rich voice separated her name into two solid syllables, a method he used when he wanted to impress the severity of his temperament on his difficult wife.

She looked away from him, chewing on one corner of her lower lip. "I was thinking about my brother. I expected there should have been some word from Highever by now, but there has been none. I worry so much for him, and it's so frustrating, this not knowing, this waiting."

"Your . . . _Brother_. Ugh! Of course. Gwyn, I'm sorry, I forgot, I just wasn't . . . I just wasn't thinking and . . ." He turned on his side under the covers to reach a hand over to place on her shoulder. His surprise was paramount when she reached up with one hand to curl her fingers over his. They felt a bit chilly, but still soft and pleasant.

"No, I understand. As I said when you first came in, today has been disheartening." The deep breath she blew out moved some strands of hair that were tickling her brow. Gwyneth wanted to be angry, her personality and mind set almost screamed for it, but she _didn't_ want to argue and fight. Her heart was heavy and her mind was taxed, and if nothing else could be maintained that wasn't just one more task, one more upset, it would be the tepid and fragile peace she'd achieved with Alistair on the way back home. "I suppose I'm a bit of a hypocrite _myself_ and I . . . I don't always know what I'm doing either. I'm in the same situation you are. I was a _teyrn's daughter_, I'm not a expert at being _queen_."

"Oh no, not the _same_ situation. I was never anyone's _daughter_." Alistair smirked in the dim light, neither of them moving to blow out the lone lamp. Gwyneth reached across her chest to smack him in the sternum with her free hand. He only grinned wider, glad for the anger that had left him and her both. "You're doing alright enough, from where I'm standing."

"Technically, you're lying down." She had her own smirk. "But thank you all the same, even though, apparently, I'm such a horrid perfectionist that I'm scaring away the help. We lost one of the serving girls, Maggie or Mary or Margaret . . . Something with an 'M' The rumor around the palace is that she couldn't handle my harsh demands on a perfect dinner and walked out. Her things are gone from the servants quarters, or so Mistress Ayin informed me."

"I seem to remember a _Margaret_, and she seemed a nice girl. I don't think she'd find you too harsh, I think she really liked Noble."

"Liking the queen's _Royal Hound_ is not liking _Her Majesty_." Gwyneth informed her husband.

"I'm aware of that, thank you. It was probably that fat cook down there. The younger girls hate her, they say she's horribly mean."

"Alistair . . ."

"Don't go scolding me, she _is_ fat."

"Why don't we go with 'pleasingly' plump?"

"Have you _seen_ the woman, Gwyn? She's not 'pleasingly' _anything_."

"You're impossible!' The queen sniffed in distaste, but it didn't completely eliminate the note of affection in her tone.

"Yes I am. Indeed." He laughed at himself.

"I have heard similar rumors though, perhaps it bears a closer look, though I haven't the time at present. Perhaps Siofra can handle it." Gwyneth fidgeted under the light coverlet as she leaned over to finally blow out the lamp. Her fingers remained curled over her husband's.

"You really like her, don't you?"

"She's very effective, as a Lady in Waiting. I must make certain to pay her family a visit when next I'm in the alienage. She said she's from the Tabris family. That name seems familiar somehow." Gwyneth tried to remember that elves she'd met during her last visit to elven section of the capital city.

"That elf we rescued from Howe's dungeons, I think that was his name. Yes, ahh . . . Soris? Soris Tabris. He had a sister or a cousin or something as well. Shianni Tabris."

"My _goodness_ but you're good with names! When did that happen?"

"Hide your disbelief, my dear queen, or you might damage my ego. Just for your information I have skills you've never seen in all Ferelden." Another short laugh from the king, fighting back the weight of the past month.

"Clearly one of them _isn't_ modesty. One might think I've infected you." She smiled in the dark, where her husband couldn't see how genuine it was.

"One just might." Alistair let her fingers slip from his as he rolled onto his side. "But it's been a long day and we need some sleep. Goodnight, wife."

"Goodnight, husband."


	20. Chapter 20: Thy Will Be Done

**Disclaimer:** _"Dragon Age: Origins" and all its expansions and additional content is the property of Bioware and EA Games. Large portions of written content within the game, as well as Dragon's Age: The Stolen Throne, and Dragon's Age: Calling, are the creation of David Gaider. Original scenarios and characters are used under the creative license of the writer, ItalianEmpress1985. No profit is being made and the following story is for entertainment purposes only_

**Words From The Author**_**: **__Firstly, updates until mid-September might come after longer spaces between, like this one. I'm working an all night shift at work until then, aptly named 'the graveyard shift' since it leaves one feeling like a zombie. :p My apologies for the wait and my gratitude for your patience and continued readership._

_Remember the very first chapter where I quoted Mr. Tolkien on how stories tend to get out of hand? Perfect example right here. When the man was right, he was right. _

_I have a storyline planned out, middle and end, but at this point I can't give you a specific number of chapters, but as long as you're reading, I'm writing. ;) I have a feeling that by the time ALL the clutter in my brain makes it to the screen, this will be a LONG one. *sigh* I'm just no good at short stories. :p_

_While the original premise was on the difficulties of arranged marriages of nobility, and that has not and will not change, the story demanded intrigue and dark things that cannot be named. *insert evil laughter here* Sooo . . . on that note, things are going to start dealing more with the looming threat of that pesky Dark Promise. Muah-ha-ha-ha-ha!_

_Wee bit o' French:_

_mon amour = my love_

_Tevene is the official language of the ancient Tevinter Imperium, as taken from pg. 222 of David Gaider's 'The Calling' Yup, I book marked it. ;) Anyway, no one ever says what it sounds like, but with the Tevinter Imperium closely resembling ancient Rome I've used Latin for the Tevene prayer used in this chapter. Normally I'd put the translation here, but being that it's a long prayer I put the translation in italics IN the story, it saves you having to scroll back up here._

_WARNING: This story is always rated 'M', but THIS chapter contains some disturbing content at the beginning that may not be appropriate for those that are sensitive to horror/gore. Which means of course that a demented individual such as myself enjoyed writing it immensely. ;) Though I didn't go overboard, I don't think. Read at your own discretion._

_Thank you for stopping in. Watch out for low flying dragons!_

_

* * *

_

_**Chapter Twenty:**_

_**Thy Will Be Done**_

* * *

_I want to shine on, in the hearts of men._

_I want a meaning from the back of my broken hand._

_Another head aches, another heart breaks._

_I'm so much older than I can take._

_These changes are changing me._

_The gold hearted boy, I used to be._

_- __The Killers_

* * *

_**T**__he heat is warm and uncomfortable, like the mugginess of a kitchen in the middle of summer; the sweat is dripping off Alistair's hair and stinging his eyes. It is weighted, the air pressing down on the king through his clothes. He can feel the dull but vicious thumping of his heart inside his chest, his lungs nearly vibrating from the oppressive burden the environment presents._

"_Come, the nearing storm has made the palace too unbearable, let us get you something refreshing for your breakfast." Eamon sounds unusually complacent as he finds Alistair roaming, leading him toward the dining hall._

"_Storm? What storm?" One brow goes up as the young king takes a seat at the overly long table._

"_You'll soon see, my boy." Eamon's voice seems not his own as the aging arl takes the queen's usual spot at the table._

"_Gwyneth is suppose to sit there, where is she?" Alistair looks around him, but only himself and Eamon are in the room, apart from the servants._

"_The queen is occupied with the king."_

"_What are you talking about? 'I' am the king!"_

_Eamon ignores him, a smirk above the gray of his thick beard. Silver dishes are laid out, many of them covered with steam. It occurs to Alistair to remark that a hot breakfast will hardly cool him down, but he doesn't speak the thought._

_Something drips on the blonde from the ceiling, a hand going to his cheek to bring his fingers back dark and sticky. He looks up, and a shout of revulsion spills from his mouth, as he pushes the chair back so violently that it slams into the ground and Alistair along with it._

_Hanging above the table is the bloated corpse of Anora Theirin, former Queen of Ferelden. Her body is so swollen with decay, and discolored that she is nigh unrecognizable, but for the tattered royal gown she was left in during her imprisonment. The dead woman's eye sockets are empty, two burning candles within them, her arms and legs stretched out and tied to posts in the ceiling, more candles laid in her flat palms._

"_Ah yes, Her Majesty has been redecorating again." Eamon's face is well pleased, almost affectionate. He sweeps an arm out to indicate the table, lifting the lid off the main dish._

_Alistair clambers to his feet, feeling as if all his body is lethargic. "How can you just _sit_ there? Do you not see her?" He shrieks, pointing at the ceiling but unable to look a second time._

"_Calm down and eat your breakfast." Eamon dabs at the corner of his mouth, gesturing to his adopted nephew._

_The main course has been revealed, and atop the platter rests Loghain MacTir's decapitated head. Alistair blinks as visions of himself executing the man flash behind his eyes. In turn the eyes of the head pop open, Loghain speaking with the gravelly wormy tongue of a corpse._

"_You bought your throne with our lives."_

_Alistair screams and runs from the dining room and out into the hall where he bends his knees to vomit on the floor. "No, no, it's not true! Loghain deserved to die for what he did, and I . . . I didn't kill Anora!" He yells his defense to the walls of the palace, and they must be listening for there is an answer._

"_Did your ineptitude not spell her end, boy king? Is your life not easier with her gone? Perhaps you wished her dead in a dream beyond remembering and thusly your Maker answered you." The voice is strange, something ethereal, between female and male together._

_Brown eyes look up as a hand comes to swipe at a dripping pair of lips. "The Maker doesn't kill people."_

_The figure there shrieks at him, a tall man whose burning eyes and inky black hair remind Alistair eerily of Morrigan. "He sent my family to the bowels of Thedas, locked away our beauty beneath miles of stone and mud! He sent my children crashing down with their minds and visages twisted into what you now call darkspawn! Do not tell me He is not a mutilating murderer!"_

_Something is frighteningly familiar about this dark-clothed man, though the king is certain he has never seen him before. Somehow there is something he knows, beyond the fact that the man looks strangely of the marsh witch. Alistair asks the obvious question. "Who are you?"_

_The man smiles, calming himself as quickly as he was sent into temper. "Ask _her_, she knows." One arm extends down the hall as the stranger begins to walk towards the throne room and Alistair follows, the walls of the palace so hot now that they begin to melt._

_Inside his mind, that's where this has to be; a nightmare, but Alistair can't wake himself, though he desperately wants to. He repeats a mantra, commanding himself awake, but still his feet plod behind the graceful man walking before him. A haze of deep orange colors everything into a sickly blend of burning hue. Alistair knows nothing good awaits him, and as the galleries above, end and open to where the King and Queen of Ferelden sit to dictate rulings upon their subjects, horror is indeed there for him to find._

_Morrigan is lain across the stone dais for the thrones, her once brilliantly golden gaze now the milky eyes of a dead woman. Her unique attire has been ripped to shreds, opening to reveal her nearly colorless skin. Red ribbons of flesh decorate the sides of her abdomen, the witch's belly split open like an over-ripe grape, deep gouges on her as if something tore its way out of her guts._

"_Tis almost a shame, she was such a lovely thing, really, for a human. Though she should have known that no mere mortal could have contained one such as I, mage or no. Her ego demanded it be so, but she could not change fate, no more than _you_ can, boy king." The dark man shakes his head, perhaps even sadly, but hardly as if he has many regrets. "_You_ know, do you not, my love?"_

_Behind the dark man stands the queen, familiar but alien in the carelessness of her image. Hair haphazardly done up, her gown filthy and torn. Blood runs freely down her thighs, staining the fabric of her sleeping attire and Alistair cannot shake the thought that it's virginal blood. Gwyneth smiles indulgently as the strange man takes her hand to lay a kiss on it. When she looks at Alistair, her eyes are a hot glowing white. The eyes of the arch-demon, and when the dark man turns, his are now the same._

"_He is Morgreth the Undying, the Destroyer. The Tevinter mages called Him 'Urthemiel', for He is beauty and death absolute." Gwyneth still smiles, looking for all the world like one besotted, her voice calm and collected. "He is the end, and we deserve it for what we've done, the sins we have committed . . . we are murderers."_

"_No! No, Gwyn, this isn't real, this has to be a dream!" Alistair shouts, backing away from the thrones, but his feet are sticking. To his horror he realizes the floor has begun to melt as well. _

_As the walls collapse into a sickening soup, it is revealed that this was never the palace, but the innards of a great beast. Its bones are the structure, and inside its massive belly are the bodies of hundreds, their corpses crawling and dragging themselves through the muck, moaning the names of those that killed them. The king recognizes many of the faces, those of men, elves and dwarves that he had been forced into battling along the way, to this point in his life._

"_Look at what you have become, mon amour. I don't recognize you any longer." A familiar voice, soft, sweet and Orlesian is behind Alistair and he whips around, face falling in despair to see his Leliana there amongst the dead ones._

"_No . . ." There is no shout, only the long cry of one that has no hope. "You're alive, you _have_ to be."_

"_When you left me, I was as good as dead. What did I have to live for? All that is left of me is vengeance in my heart and music in my soul and those things cannot sustain me." Leliana's sad and beautifully blue eyes are in stark contrast to all the red-orange of this horrible place. "I am no different than all those killed, all the blood spilled, for the crown you wear." The bard takes one of her daggers and slices it across her throat._

"Leliana!" Bolting upright, Alistair found the bed sheet stuck to him through his thin tunic by a sheen of sweat. He looked around him, panicked to see if the walls were burning orange, but all that greets his sleep soaked eyes is the printed wallpaper of the royal bedchamber. The air was slightly warm, but not overly so, and the young king breathed a sigh of relief.

'_Maker what a nightmare_!'

A faint breeze fluttered against the thick, dark red draperies at either side of the balcony doors. They were opened to the pale yellow light of early morning, where the queen was pressed against the balustrade columns, a crimson robe tied around her, almost blending with her loose hair. For a few sickening seconds, Alistair imagined it might be blood, but he shook his groggy head, calling out to her.

She didn't answer, and he could tell from where he was sitting in bed that she had her chin resting thoughtfully in one palm, likely lost to all else but her own contemplations. He tried again, louder and she started, swiping at something in front of her before she turned, eyes slightly puffy and red rimmed, but they were silver and entirely hers. No sign of that burning white, and the redhead looked well managed and clean. Though he could always appreciate her cleanliness, even if he didn't understand her obsession, for once Alistair was almost ecstatic over it. '_This is reality_.'

As the thought sunk in, he realized that she'd been crying. "Gwyn? What's the matter?" Still fighting off the leftover terror of his dark dream, the queen's upsets managed to garner his attention anyway.

"Nothing." She smiled half heartedly, swiping at her face again. "I had an awful dream, and it was difficult to put it from my mind." She gestured to Denerim, the city that stretched out past the dark green of the palace gardens. "Out here I can remind myself of what's real, who I am . . ." Gwyneth trailed off, eyes distant. She closed them to the accompaniment of a ragged drawn out sigh. Behind her eyelids she could still see Morrigan, her guts torn open, her once golden eyes, milky and dead. With a shake of her head, the queen motioned to the king. "You don't look so great yourself. It must have been an evening for nightmares."

"How do you know I had a _nightmare_? It could have been a dream about wet frocks and wine. We _did_ drink a lot of wine last night." The king tried to grin, tried to be jovial and lessen the cold terror still humming under his skin, singing along his veins. It didn't work.

"The look on your face says it all, and the way you screamed Leliana's name was hardly pleasant." Instead of her normal sharp glare of irritation, at the frequency with which he says the bard's name in his sleep, Gwyneth only looked forlorn. She wrapped her arms around herself, reluctantly stepping back into the room to come and settle herself at the edge of the bed. "I heard you and it woke me up."

"I'm sorry."

"No, don't be. I'm fair certain that I should be grateful, my own imaginings were _horrible_." The queen didn't explain them further, she couldn't even make herself say the words if she wished to. A hesitant hand reached out to touch Alistair's shoulder where the already pale fabric seemed whiter still by a salty stain. "You are positively _soaked_ with sweat. I'll call for the maids to draw a bath." Any action to do so was halted when the king reached for her.

"Do you think we're murderers, Gwyn?" Alistair almost croaked the question, but it struck right at the queen's heart and she barely stifled a gasp.

"_What_ did you say?" She thought back to _her_ nightmare, to the damnable Morgreth, the way he tries to seduce her, insinuating his will into her mind. That he was a figment of her own imagination, for he surely must've been, is even more vexing. Because if it stemmed from her mind, Gwyneth should have been able to stop it, but she could not. Specifically now she could hear him, telling her of the outright murders she committed to get her throne and her power.

"In my dream, there was Loghain's . . . _head_ and he told me I bought my throne with his life, and you were there and you said . . . you said we were murderers." The king wiped a hand across his face, looking sick. "So many dead, Gwyn, _so many_. Leliana told me that she didn't recognize me anymore, and the rub of it, _I_ don't either."

A cold shiver ran down Gwyneth's spine and she shook herself, but at the desperate look her husband wore, she knew something must be said. The young queen's fear was stamped down and she took Alistair's face in her hands, the mattress giving under her weight as she kneeled upon it. "You are the King of Ferelden, it is who you are, it is everything that encompasses you now. I am no dream, Alistair Theirin, I am your queen, and I am telling you that we did what we _had_ to do, for ourselves, yes, but so too for _Ferelden_."

"But what if . . ." He began to protest but found Gwyneth's finger pressed against his lips.

"_No one _can get through life with their hands clean, no one at all. There are no saints in this life or the next, no matter what the Chantry says. Sometimes to reach the greater good, unpleasant actions must be accomplished. You are the sovereign of this country, _ordained by the Maker Himself_, and you have brought justice down upon those that deserved it, you have taken a title that so many would've doubted you could handle, and you've proven them wrong. Don't let your worries lead you astray to failure _now_." She was leveling her gaze at him, and it _had_ to work. Gwyneth was willing it so on the doubting king. Because in her heart the queen wasn't all that certain of the roles they had, of the _true_ parts they had played. Just as the weight of Ferelden was pressed upon them both, so too did personal doubts become a shared dowry, inherited by events that could not always be explained in the manner of black or of white.

"_Sometimes to reach the greater good, unpleasant actions must be accomplished_? Maybe Teyrn Loghain thought the same thing, and yet I hated him for what he did. His worries about Orlais sounded insane and paranoid to me, but what if to _him_ they made some sense? I don't think he saw _himself_ as a villain." Alistair got up from the bed, pulling off his sweat-stiffened tunic, the loose night-breeches underneath not quite as close to his skin to cause discomfort. He threw the garment to the floor, running a hand through his loose and lengthening hair.

A tall mirror behind the screen gave him a view of himself, and just as he had done at Ostagar, the young king found he was unrecognizable from the boy inside a man's body that he had once been. The times when he wanted to recapture those days were many. He was still young, still full of vitality, but the innocence and naivety of youth had been trampled beneath the polished royal boots he wears these days.

"He let _Cailan_ be killed . . . " She stopped and thought on what that meant to her. Her confusion over her feelings for the man persisted, even on the day of his funeral. Once there had _already_ been a funeral for Cailan, held under the lies Loghain had spread and Anora had continued. Gwyneth couldn't pretend, at least with _herself_, that _she_ had not _also_ frequently lied or twisted the truth to suit her own needs, but with _that_ a personal interest kept her treading the waters of deceit, instead of drowning in them. The young queen almost wanted to resurrect them both, the Mac Tirs of Ferelden, to scream and rail at them, ask them 'why?' but maybe the 'why' was without a clear answer, and it seemed that on a funeral day it was best to let dead men and women lay where they had found rest, deserved or no.

To be honest, Gwyneth had no desire to begin questioning herself. Loghain had been a good man, once, that fell into darkness, but not one that she ever thought deserved a teyrnir; an opinion perpetuated and shared by Eleanor Cousland and several others of nobility, though _some_ nobles and many commoners would've disagreed. He deserved his execution and that was that. Anora was an excellent politician, but a very poor queen to her king, and though some might have blamed _Cailan_ instead for that marital failure, the redhead was standing by her opinion. She regretted that Anora had been killed, and worried yet for the guilty party, but she did _not_ regret taking the woman's crown. She would _never_ regret _that_. It was a hard job that Gwyneth had inherited, and just shy of a month into it, there were days that she _hated_ being queen, but it's where she belonged, she was sure of it. So, her head was held high, as she tried to reassure her king.

"He let _Duncan_ be killed . . ." Gwyneth watched as the second name hit the intended target, and she knew that she had to grasp on to the small victory to launch herself forward. "Loghain's paranoia of Orlais was exactly that, and because of his _insanity _he failed to take the Blight seriously, instead causing a near _civil-war _in Ferelden at a crucial point in this country's survival, a time when we could least afford the luxury of infighting. He let an ambitious murderer, Rendon Howe, run wild, even after the atrocity he committed against _my own family._ As if the snowballing list of that man's crimes meant _nothing_!_" _She climbed off the bed and went to Alistair, catching his eyes with hers and holding him there. "_Once_ Loghain MacTir _was_ a hero, and _once_ he _was_ a good man, but he stood at the edge of a precipice. On that same precipice where _you_ now stand, except I have every confidence that _you will not fall_, as _he_ did."

Alistair closed his eyes tightly, his forehead sagging forward to meet his wife's as they pressed their skulls together. He was too wearied by self doubt to even be surprised that she allowed that kind of contact. "How can you be so certain? If a righteous man could become an evil one, than what is to say that _I'm_ immune to the same pitfall?"

"Because _you_ worry about it. _That's_ why I'm certain. Do you think men like _Loghain_ ever paused to ask themselves the moral and mortal consequences of their decisions and actions? Do you think that they _ever_ asked someone for counsel? _No_. They were so assured that they were right, so assured that questioning oneself in private lead to weakness and it pulled them under. They forget that while in _public_ one must be strong, that in _private companionship_, doubting oneself is normal and right. _You_ are standing here, asking questions _of me_ and _of yourself_ that speak to what kind of man you are." Gwyneth's voice was assured and calm, though she was fighting not to bite her lip, willing her words to work.

"And what kind of man am I, my queen?"

"A good one."

It was slow, but Alistair smiled and it felt good to not be so pushed down by the weight of Thedas. "Let's hope our people think so when we greet them at the funeral procession today." The smile faltered and Gwyneth sighed against him, as the king moved to rest his chin on her head, as if they were collapsing into each other as two stone pillars, cracked with wear and leaning from a crumbling foundation. "This is a hell of a mess we've gotten into."

"Yes it is."

"I wasn't expecting formation parades and endless praise when I accepted this job, but no one said it was going to be so _hard_. I expected some of it, but _this_ . . .I don't know how to win the people, Gwyn. I realize that's what I need to do, but I don't even know where to start."

Gwyneth listened to the rumble of his voice where her ear was pressed against his chest. He smelled of sweat and the strong soap he'd used the night before. A mixed fragrance that was wholly Alistair, and reminded his queen of both who he was and who he has become. "We will, because we _have_ to."

* * *

The Maker wasn't granting His serenity that morning, the sun He owned hidden above a relentless blanket of pale and dull white. That hazy canopy went on and on, as far as the eye could see, and though no rain threatened, there was an uncomfortable dampness to the air, the wind kicking up at intermittent intervals. Distantly, across the palace grounds, there came the sound of ocean waves splashing against the private docks, the gulls above the Amaranthine Sea swooping low before they were out of sight.

A funeral procession made its way down the wide cobbled walk that ran through the palace gardens, the dark grass at either side crowding in on the pale and worn stones. Many polished boots and dainty slippered feet walked down the cobbles. Though several nobles had not returned to Ferelden, and many that did could still not make the trip for fear of yet rampant darkspawn. Still the collection of the Honor Guards, the Knights of Denerim, and the nobles that _could_ attend, made a fine funeral party, with King Alistair and Queen Gwyneth at the head.

The queen was dressed in a gown of tiered charcoal grey and black, a mourning veil across her face where it was secured to fall over the dainty crown worn atop her hair that late morning. Alistair was dressed similarly, the wide shoulders of his doublet cut to reveal a tease of silver and as he walked at the head of the funeral procession, he appeared both humbled by grieving and regal with his self-assurance. The public had no way of knowing what truth there was to the image, because the image was maintained thoroughly.

Commoners watched from the sidelines, most of them held a hand to their hearts, respectful for the late King Cailan, and more so for Ser Elvorn, who was widely popular with the simple folk of Denerim. They whispered to each other as they watched their sovereigns, and Gwyneth tried not to let her back stiffen too sharply as her ears caught some familiar and unwanted rumors. Her eyes trained on the velvet pillow Eamon carried, and the shroud covering the urn atop it.

Guards lined the walkway, holding their spears aloft as small flags hung on every other one; the twin mabari against a dark purple background, as was the royal seal of both Maric and Cailan's time and the current, having not been changed.

Ordered by her majesty, a lone violinist, dressed in the same funeral shades as the sovereign and accompanying courtiers, walked with them, the sad notes of his song stirring the air with their melancholy. There were some cries from the commoners that were loud enough to be heard, sniffles of sorrow

The youngest successor of Theirin kings kept an eye on the dais, set to face outward to the sea. Ser Elvorn's ashes would be spread first, some saved to be sent to the man's family. Afterward would come King Cailan's ceremony, with a speech not only _prepared_ by Queen Gwyneth, but shared with her as well.

Only a certain number of commoners were chosen by the Honor Guard to attend the funeral, the king wanting to be sure that they felt valued enough to be selected by members of court that had titles the people would recognize as important. King Alistair also made certain that the guardsmen chose varying individuals, some of each race in the city and of different incomes. There would be no deliberate hint of favoritism.

All the roiling tempest of thoughts in the king's head made the walk to dais seem to pass quickly, and before he knew it, the tall blonde was standing, his back to the waters of the Amaranthine Sea. He was told by Arl Eamon that it was unwise for the king to attend any funeral, _and wouldn't he have been unhappy about the ceremony in Brackenridge_? The steward said that the people could then imagine his own death, but Alistair was steadfast. His people would see him as one of them, as a human being just as capable of grieving and giving respect to the dead as they were.

Mother Perpetua, from the local chantry, swung a holy lantern, the smoke coming from it meant to ward off evil spirits as the souls of the departed went to join The Maker. Arcs of thin grey smoke made swirls in the air as the thin woman hummed a canticle beneath her breath. She joined the king and queen on the dais, setting the lantern aside to place both hands together, crossing herself and bowing, as those around the Mother did the same. Her voice was rich with a posh Ferelden accent, calm in its delivery.

"Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter. Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just. Blessed is Ser Elvorn, a child of The Maker who did his duty, always. May His Greatness embrace him in the heavens."

The chorus was resounding. "Amen, To His Greatness!"

"Ser Elvorn spent his life serving Ferelden as a honored Knight of Denerim. From the time he was a young lad he was raised on tales of the great men of this nation, and it was in their footsteps he followed. His own service was indeed grand, he faced down creatures of evil and nightmare with barely a twitch, ever praising The Maker, Andraste and his home. He loved Ferelden and cherished the people of our great country. So it is with heavy hearts that we send him to his final rest, but also with joy for a life well lived." The king's voice rang out, loud and firm and when he turned to spread the knight's ashes, it was to the sound of agreement and prayers for Ser Elvorn. "To you, Ser Elvorn, may you find the eternal rest you deserve, at The Maker's side."

It is a quick service, but there hadn't been much time to plan anything more involved. Alistair kept a tiny fistful of Elvorn's ashes, and put them in a velvet pouch Gwyneth had procured. He started in surprise to see the man's name embroidered on the side in golden thread, the symbol of the knights, done in similar thread above that. The king looked to his queen. She knew embroidery, had in fact remarked that all good girls of breeding should know it, but it was unclear if she had done the embroidery of the ash pouch herself. There was only a nod from her as she took the pouch from Alistair's hands to clasp it in her own.

Gwyneth had speeches down to an art, and her voice rose to an impressive and heavenly pitch. A sniff came from under her veil, theatrical and well practiced, though she was not without sorrow for the loss of a good man, but Ferelden had lost _many_ good men. To grieve for one she had barely known was not her weal, but it was what the people wanted, the queen could see it on their expectant faces, those close enough to the dais past the protective line of guards. She took a ragged breath, as if keeping herself from crying, and smiled faintly under the security of the black fabric that covered her face, when Alistair put a hand to her elbow as if to steady his wife. _He was learning the tricks and turns of his office._

"As you all do, I grow so weary . . . So very weary of the continued loss of good men, of their ladies and their children, to the vile poison that has infected this land. Today we celebrate two lives, given in equal measure, for the protection of the country that we all hold close and dear. Protection against a surge of darkness that seems not to abate, but it shall, of that your king and your queen promise you. As we have sent Ser Elvorn, brave and noble heart, to meet Thy Maker, we hold fast that someday we will make his sacrifice and the sacrifice of all others mean something for the future of our children. These ashes shall be given to Elvron's family, so that they may remember that one of their blood helped to bring eternal sunlight back to Ferelden. Blessed is Ser Elvorn, Blessed is The Maker, Blessed is His bride, Andraste and Blessed are all of you."

A cheer came from the collection of commoners, and despite the morose setting, Gwyneth smiled beneath her veil, in triumph. "Blessed is Ser Elvorn, Blessed is Queen Gwyneth, Blessed is King Alistair!" The shout resounded from her subjects, the guards almost forced to quiet the collected crowd.

As Elvorn's ashes were taken away by a page, Steward Eamon Guerrein, stepped up to the dais as the shroud was removed from the large velvet pillow, the exquisite silver urn containing King Cailan's ashes revealed to all. A hush, that heavy pale, fell over all standing there. Mother Perpetua cleared her throat as she began to sing a Tevene prayer. Many in the Chantry had taken up the old language for prayer, the irony of using the tongue of the usurpers unto The Golden City, was not lost on the priesthood, and in that perhaps was the key to why it was used.

"Nostrum valde rexagis, haud diutius nos animadverto vos, ac etiam nos diligo vos." Her voice was clear and high, full of dissonant melancholy. _"_Eldroth Es Plasmator nos transporto macies. En eternus amplitudo lux lucis quod levamentum carmen." She paused and reached both hands up to the sky, eyes seeking out her god. "Beatus Plasmator esal Rexagis Cailan ut polus, qua suus vita mos fulsi umquam perspicuus en vestri palma."

'_Our great king, no longer do we see you, and still we love you. Unto The Maker we send thou_. _In eternal grand light and comforting song. Blessed Maker, take King Cailan to the heavens, where his life will shine ever bright in your glory.'_

When the stately Mother finished, she bowed low, crossing herself. "Amen." Drawn out like a long refreshing breath, and the people took that breath with her.

King Alistair crossed himself in turn, taking his wife's hand as they bowed together. He felt her nerves trembling under the skin, and wondered still what she had felt for his late half-brother. What the _people _thought of that relationship was made plain as they glanced with interest. _Would she break down for a lost love; lose her composure and cry right there? Was she a queen of ice, ever frozen and unmoving? Any emotion she _did_ have, was it real? _The tall blonde was almost angry at them, the nobles and the commoners alike. That they had all these nagging doubts, questions, that their minds pried where they had no business to do so, _and for what_? _Were their lives so dull that the only way they could liven them up was to make up stories and cause rumors for those that lived above them_? Still, the king maintained that impassive façade he'd been wearing all morning.

He felt a twinge when Eamon passed the urn into his hands. It occurred to him all at once that he was holding what remained of Cailan, the ashes of the man's life, right there, contained inside an urn no bigger than a vase for the flowers in the dining hall. Alistair had never really known his brother, and what he did know he didn't much care for, but Cailan had hopes and dreams, he aspired to greatness. To realize that all of that amounted to a urn full of ashes in the end, was monumentally heart wrenching. It created a fear in Alistair's heart, and his thoughts led him to his own mortality. _When his end came, would everything is _his_ life be similarly compacted? Forgotten as it was spread to the wind?_

For once, Alistair felt a bond with his brother, a family tie. The shared feeling of wanting to be greater than yourself, only to end up as nothing. He could close his eyes and see Cailan, all shining gold and smiling brilliantly. So sure was he that he could win the day, save the world, but instead, he had died as miserably as those that fought with him, abandoned by a man that his father had called friend. His wife and that same traitor telling tales of how they had wished Cailan could've survived, lies that propped themselves higher while Ferelden fell apart. That's what Cailan's funeral had been held under . . . lies.

Gwyneth's speech was carefully planned, but honest, or at least her version of it. She wanted the people to know who their villains and their heroes were, through _her_ eyes.

Alistair almost wanted to say his final blessings his own way, to Hell with the speech, but then, his wife _did_ have a way with words. With a heavy sigh, he lifted the urn to the sky. "My brother, though I am saddened to say I did not know him well. Once before this city was made to grieve for him under false banners and false pall bearers. Teyrn Loghain told you all that the Grey Wardens abandoned my brother, abandoned his men and even each other. Now we all know the truth, that it was Loghain that was the traitor. We leave that man to his rest, and his final judgment, but remember, my people, my _friends, _that the punishment for treason to the Crown is _death_. Sadly, good King Cailan was made to pay the price for another's treachery, but as your new sovereign I shall not let that stand. We will send his body, these sacred ashes that remain of a good man full of hope, to The Maker, under an honest banner. We who truly can care for Cailan's eternal spirit."

There was a shift in the crowd, and finally one brave soul called it out first. "Maker Save King Cailan!" Once that ice was broken, the others seem to fall in line, their voices coalescing into a impressive and resounding shout up to the heavens.

Queen Gwyneth stepped forward, her heels hitting the stone dais as the cacophony died down, and clacking against it. "Cailan was my friend, and my father, the honorable Teyrn Bryce Cousland, loved Cailan as he would've his own son, for he knew that he had a greatness in him, a fire that would not be put out."

Alistair would've been surprised to hear that, if they had not already practiced their speeches. He didn't know if what she said was true, or if she made it sound more heartfelt than it had been, but there was honesty in the woman's voice, a clear grief that no acting could produce.

"Today, and all days afterward, I will not let that fire dim, though King Cailan has left us. I will see his legacy is honored, and that his dreams come to fruition. He dreamed a dream of the greatness of Ferelden, and a glorious dream it was. We _can_ be as great as he imagined, together, we can soar to any height. No more is Ferelden held back by the bars of barbarism, of our bloody and unrefined history. For there has always been greatness in us, untamed and wild, but greatness there was and it yet remains, after all the hardships this country has endured, still we triumph to win the day. His Highness and I will see that all of us reach _every_ potential, and at last the world will no longer classify us a nation of wet dogs and barbarians, but as a united force, elegant in our craft, cultured in our ways and above all, more brilliant than the sun that shines down upon us!" Gwyneth's tone was exultant, and she brought smiles from the crowd, jubilation in the face of death, and she knew, that for that, they would love her, for a time.

"Maker bless King Cailan, and Maker see that thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on Thedas as it is in Heaven. For the greatness of Cailan and for the greatness of Ferelden!" She shouted and there was a rousing cheer from the crowd as Alistair moved to spread the ashes.

The king looked to his wife, that woman so full of life and ambition. He could hear that she had won the crowd today, and though it pleased him, he worried. Alistair knew Gwyneth more than any of their people did, and still a haunting doom preceded him, fear of the unknown. Because the new king didn't know if he walked with Gwyneth down a path that led to the glory she spoke of, or if it was that tempting and dark road that would draw them both down, into Hell.


	21. Chapter 21: His Father's Sword

**Disclaimer:** _"Dragon Age: Origins" and all its expansions and additional content is the property of Bioware and EA Games. Large portions of written content within the game, as well as Dragon's Age: The Stolen Throne, and Dragon's Age: Calling, are the creation of David Gaider. Original scenarios and characters are used under the creative license of the writer, ItalianEmpress1985. No profit is being made and the following story is for entertainment purposes only._

* * *

**Words From The Author**_**: **__I wanted to thank those that read the author's notes. I understand that some people want to get right to the story, and that's fine with me, but thanks for those that _do_ read my little ramblings and the odd occasional warning. ;) In all seriousness, thanks again to everyone who has stayed interested and reviewed. Thank you also to those that have added me to your favorite story list, favorite author list and story alert list. I'm just glad you are enjoying and reading._

_I apologize for the lateness of this update, I was working the graveyard shift and it almost KILLED me! Get it? Graveyard/Killed? *crickets chirping in the grass* Tough crowd, tough crowd._

_So on to items of interest, otherwise known as the 'legit authors notes'_

_I wanted to get into Cailan's documents this chapter, but it didn't work with Alistair's feelings near the end, and Gwyneth is definitely more the focus when it comes to the letters. So she'll have to wait her turn, but don't worry, I haven't forgotten._

_Maric's sword never had a name! I know, right? I was thinking the same thing. Unless we want to call it 'Maric's Blade' like they did when you pick it up as __loot__ in the DLC and yeah no, Alistair has enough problems trying to live up to his predecessors. So, possibly, maybe, it will get one eventually, though even though this story gets a lot of inspiration from things Arthurian, I'm not about to name the sword Excalibur. :p_

_Later in this chapter you'll encounter the word '_Satinalia' _It's the name of the holiday in Ferelden that is most like our Christmas. And for my American readers, 'up yourself' is very similar to saying 'stuck on yourself/stuck up' it's just more British . . . I think. :p_

_Thank you for stopping in. Watch out for low flying dragons!_

* * *

_**Chapter Twenty One:**_

_**His Father's Sword**_

* * *

May 28'th, 9:31 Dragon Age

**T**he Hall of Heroes was Cailan's creation, his worship of heroic tales, and the love he had held for both of his parents had launched him forward. Greatly inspired by the hall of the same name that greeted visitors to the dwarven city of Orzammar, though certainly not holding the same statues of dwarven paragons. As the Grand Ballroom was, the long hall had the same feeling of grandiosity, except unlike the ballroom that embraced a new age, the Hall of Heroes was constructed to respect the past.

In its infancy, only shrines to Queen Rowan and King Maric had been within. Gwyneth half wondered what Loghain had thought of his exclusion from the hall, but from what little she knew personally of the man, he might have protested. He had hardly been a fan of late king's flights of fancy and talent for showmanship. A disdain that had no doubt played _some_ part in Cailan's doom.

Late into the night, well past the funeral ceremonies, only half of the sconces along the walls still burned, the tall mullioned windows letting the moonlight create patterns on the cold tile floor. Shadows danced around the lone figure that made her way to where a new shrine for Cailan had been created, sat beside one of Duncan, the Grey Warden's weapons lain atop a white cloth in front of his bust. An addition of the _recent_ sovereign.

Delicate fingers, pale and long, caressed with affection the gleaming silver urn that was next to Duncan's shrine, the last of King Cailan's remains, what had not been scattered across the Amaranthine Sea. His gauntlets had been preserved from his pyre at Ostagar, and were lain at either side of the fine marble disc that would hold Cailan's own bust when it was finished.

"You understand, don't you? If anyone could, it would be _you_. We always seemed to know each other, to breathe the same air of noble thought." Queen Gwyneth Therein's voice was small, sad and almost begging. It was hardly her normal mode of speech, and neither was the prostrate set to her shoulders. Pretense was her friend, and a talent she had long held , but that day had been filled with it, more so than usual, and pretending had its own weight. At the very least, she could be allowed the macabre one-sided conversation with the man whose dreams Gwyneth had stood upon to gain her own high ground. There would be little servants about at the late hour, and what ones were, had been easily sent on their way. A simple excuse of wanting to take a small walk about the palace to help her sleep was all that was needed, that and a pair of narrowed eyes sent to those that might have raised a questioning brow.

The torches spluttered for the briefest moment, but it sent a jolt right down the queen's spine. Looking about, as she did, the redhead found no one, and with one last cursory glance at the hall behind her, the tall woman returned to the object of her focus, falling to her knees.

"They were slipping away from me . . . from Alistair, the people. I had to do _something_." She whispered fervently, heavily accented voice becoming even more so, the decades of that posh speech bleeding through. Her hand went to the neck of her ivory robe, searching beneath for Cailan's amulet. Fingers closed around the golden dragon and its prized sapphire. "It will only placate them for so long, dreams don't last forever. Soon they will cry out for change that they can _see_, touch, feel." A grimace twists up her face, before the redhead relaxes her cheeks again. "I believed in your dreams Cailan, I still do, they fuel the fire of my own inspirations. If there is nothing else that is true, than _that_ much is. No blatant lies were spoken today."

_Blatant_. _No, but the truth may have been stretched in a few places_. "I . . . it was for effect, you understand, you _always_ understood the importance of just the right words, just the right smiles." Despite the convincing Gwyneth had done with herself, the words felt cheap and she tried not to cry, but failed miserably. She'd been raised up to use her tears at the right time when they could be advantageous, and as a rather spoiled child, the legitimate tears had been fostered if not always encouraged. A puffy face and red eyes were hardly attractive traits, but they did have their uses. Now they were for a genuine sense of loss, not merely for Cailan, but for herself. A self pity that the young royal tried to indulge in only secretly, but indulge she did.

"I thought, somehow, that it would be easier than this. I thought becoming queen was an inescapable fate, but a useful one, a task I was well suited for . . . but now . . ." One hand was extended in the air as the redhead paused to think of what she wanted to say. "Before we left for Ostagar, I said that I loved you, I said it to myself, but I just . . . I don't know anymore. The chance to find out was _stolen_ from me when you died. _So much_ was lost on that field." Gwyneth reached her hands up the altar's edge, the cool stone cradling her legs. "But I cared for you, I _swear_ to you that I did, and if you had been with me, if _you_ were my king husband instead . . . I think it would be easier, and yet, _he_ is a good king, he _is_. He tries to be." The queen's voice cracked from fresh tears. "Should I tell your brother how hard it is? I don't think he would understand. He's so lost himself, I know that to be true, and Wynne, she was right. He _does_ need me, but how am I to be the queen Ferelden needs, and the queen Alistair needs, _both_ while staying true to myself? How do I do that, my Cailan?" Gwyneth whispered, cautious, but ardent, wishing more than anything that there was an answer.

Another spluttering noise was that answer, the torches dimming so much they nearly went out.

The tiny hairs at the base of Gwyneth's skull tingled and she turned her head, that feeling of being watched so heavy as to make her panicked. She swiped at her wet cheeks, her voice careful, trying to remove all traces of her grieving and replace them with a strength of character she was having a hard time summoning. "H-Hello?"

Nothing but the faint sound of the burning sconces and the beating of the queen's own heart greeted her ears. Her pupils dilated, searching the long shadows of that hall for any sign of another presence. While sight and sound demanded that she was alone, the goose bumps that rose on her arms demanded otherwise.

"If someone is there, you had best answer your queen. I do not take kindly to gossips trying to spy on me." The threat was made into the quiet hall and no response was forthcoming.

A pair of double doors marked the entrance to the Hall of Heroes, and as they began to open, Gwyneth cursed herself for leaving them unlatched. Her breath caught as she waited, frozen to the spot. There came a clacking on the tiled floor, slow but steady. The queen's breath hitched, her increased vulnerability naught but moments ago making her nerves still jump at the slightest provocation.

"You answer me, or I'll have your head!" Finally Gwyneth's voice raised, and she grabbed one of Duncan's blades behind her, to sustain the threat.

Into the moonlight stepped a broad-shouldered mabari, his chestnut fur looking a dark golden color in the play of the moon and the dim sconces.

The queen breathed a sigh of relief, a short laugh escaping her as she gingerly laid the dagger back down. "Oh, Noble!" Gwyneth placed a hand against her palpitating heart. "Noble, you _scared_ momma. You certainly did. Why aren't you in your den? The maids set a _very nice_ den for my Royal Hound."

Noble tilted his head to the left and whined, before hanging his head low. When his mistress came to rub at his head there was another whine, pitiful and barely audible.

"You couldn't sleep either, hmm? Yes, it _has_ been a dreary day. Come, you can sleep in the royal bedchamber, just for tonight. Would you like that?" Gwyneth waited as she kept a hand upon the head of her tall mabari, the large dog standing at her waist. "The king might not like it, but that's alright."

Noble woofed quietly in agreement. The ever loving companion, who could bring the dreariest soul a smile.

As the pair of them left the Hall of Heroes, Gwyneth wished Cailan a goodbye, where he rested finally in peace at the Maker's side. Neither the queen or the mabari took notice of the shadowed figure moving behind one of the pillars, the slight glow of their eyes no different than the sconces as they watched the redhead walk away.

* * *

_Her hair was a like a red beacon in dawn's early light, that poetic thought sustaining him as the long battlefield lay below, waiting with death's claws. She stared at him, such abject love in the stars of her eyes that the king felt unworthy. As if Andraste herself looked upon him, and did not find him wanting, but instead of infallible character. It bolstered him, and as her lips opened to speak, he captured them, so taken by the desire to possess this lovely creature, stood there on the same precipice._

_His voice was rough and strewn with such a lust that he had never known. Love and desire in kind had touched his soul. Another woman had lived there once, true and pulsing, and he had yearned for that woman as no other, but _this_ . . . was unholy and yet holy, an enigma of the mind that consumed all of him in animal instinct. A thought that pervaded all else. 'Mine!'_

_She did not pull back in shock, but accepted the affection without malice or hidden intent. Her smile was radiant and warmed every inch of him._

"_My Gwyneth . . ." Though the voice was clearly that of his own tongue, the king had never thought to hear _her_ name pass through his lips with such an aching need._

_The queen answered in kind, fingers winding in his blonde hair. "Yes, Cailan?"_

So quickly did the haze of his dreaming fade into the moonlit darkness of the royal bedchamber, and so little was the transition, that Alistair's head was still spinning. His distress was paramount, and pounded like war drums beneath his ribcage. '_Had _that_ been how Cailan had seen in Gwyneth? No, it couldn't have been, how would I be able to conjure the memories of a _dead_ man?'_

It had to have been nothing more than a dream, brought on by the weight of the day, where everything had been tinged with the all too short life of Cailan Theirin. Alistair had never thought so much on his half brother as he had done since the older man died. The irony of that was not lost on him, and neither was the surprising amount of melancholy that accompanied it.

Alistair had always believed that Cailan would have no interest in him, and would regard him as little more than dirt. If he had known of his half brother, and Alistair was fairly certain he must have at least heard a _rumor_ or ten, the man certainly never showed any sign of being interested. That golden glorious king, so sure of his own superiority, and yet Alistair had once thought the same of Gwyneth. It was only time in her company that offered him a glimpse into the blue blooded snob, past all the bullshit and the false fronts, though even now he was not so certain of _her_. The opportunity for the same thing with Cailan was gone and the new king could never have it returned.

One hand came up to rub across his face, a habit Alistair was acquiring when his nerves felt ruined. Rich brown eyes strayed over to Gwyneth's side of the bed to find it empty, the covers rumpled and thrown back. Immediately he looked to his unaccustomed wife's favorite perch, but the doors to the balcony were closed and no one was visible through the panes of glass.

A low growling was at the door, and Alistair stiffened, the sheet pooled around his naked waist, sleeping breeches all he wore as summer drew in. "Who is it?" The low register of his voice made gruff by sleep and caution.

When the door came open, Gwyneth stood there, one hand still on the knob as the other held a candlestick, collected from one of the many end tables scattered throughout the palace. Her eyes were wide in surprise. "You . . .you're _awake_!" Noble barged in behind her, nearly knocking his mistress down as he jumped onto the bed, nesting his paws against the light bedspread to find a comfortable spot suited to his tastes.

"Oh _no_! Get out of here!" Alistair barked, standing up out of bed to point at the mabari, who only looked up at him soulfully, and whined, giving him the good old 'puppy dog eyes' "No, that's not going to work, ser. Come on, out with you!" At the second command Noble only glanced to his mistress.

"Leave off, Alistair. I told him he could stay in here for tonight, he was having trouble sleeping." Gwyneth set the candlestick down on the table at her side of the bed, making to get under the covers herself. The queen shrugged the ivory robe off, to sleep in just her nightgown. She glanced at the king over her shoulder, to find him watching her peculiarly. "What? Oh for goodness sake! One night with Noble in here isn't going to _kill_ you. He is bathed regularly."

At that Noble growled low in his throat, clearly displeased at the memory of those frequent washings.

_As if Andraste herself looked upon him, and did not find him wanting, but instead of infallible character._ The thought from his dream seemed to find its way into waking reality. Alistair had to shake his head, clearing the image of Gwyneth standing in the dawn sun, where it was replaced with her confused face at his silence, the candle light a dim and poor replacement for the sunlight of his dreaming.

"No, no I . . . I'm sorry, it's not that. I just had a peculiar dream and it's hard to get rid of, is all." He stared at the former friend he had married, but the look of adoration her face had worn during his unconscious visions was gone. All Gwyneth was doing now was quirking a brow at him, and looking at Alistair like he was the most peculiar sort she had ever had the misfortune to share a room with. "Alright, get comfortable then, mutt." The king scowled at the more-than-happy mabari, who was clearly going to take a place between the sovereign and his queen consort.

"_Don't_ call him that, he's a _purebred_ mabari!" Gwyneth opened her mouth to protest further, but was halted by Alistair waving a bored hand in her direction, rolling about to find his own comfortable spot.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm sure. Taken from the best stock. Bred to perfection. No more handsome a dog to be found in all of Thedas, etcetera."

"You say that like you don't believe me." Gwyneth harrumphed, patting a consoling head on Noble's head, though he'd taken the wisest course and chose to ignore his mistress and her husband.

"It's not that, it's more that I don't know how many times you think you need to remind me. I haven't forgotten." He could almost feel her getting ready to verbally throw a punch, and switched directions. "Where were you, anyway? It's not like you to wander around in the middle of the night."

Gwyneth shrugged against the wide headboard, the pillows still propped up behind her back. "I just needed a walk, there is no rule that says the Queen of Ferelden cannot take a small stroll when she can't sleep well."

"You went to look at Cailan's ashes, didn't you?"

The redhead felt an unpleasant stinging sensation up her spine. "No." It came too quickly and Alistair caught on.

"Don't lie to me."

"Don't ask questions you already think you know the answers to, and then get angry when I don't want to confirm or deny your assumptions concerning matters that are none of your business anyway." Gwyneth almost smiled at that clean delivery.

Alistair blinked, frustrated with the woman's way with words. Over the six months spent building an army for the Blight, he came to realize that her talent for speech craft and politics _had_ to have been the reason Duncan wanted her as a Warden. It certainly hadn't been her ineptitude with her short swords, something remedied, though not perfected, over a long period of time on the road. "Is there a translation for that?"

"No." She crossed her arms childishly, pouting as she yanked the feather pillows down, and folded herself over to lay under the thin bedspread.

_And it certainly wasn't her _charming_ private personality_. He amended with a small snort. The king might have said something further, and even made a move to reach over and make her look at him. Noble's low growling halted that altogether, so Alistair was forced to ignore the elephant in the room, and the large mabari between himself and his wife. "Fine, have it your way."

Gwyneth said nothing, likely in a foul temper now, but the king had many things on his mind. In the morning the locksmith came to open Cailan's royal chest, and Alistair worried himself well into the night, imaging the floodgate of unwanted thoughts that would come out of that chest, along with anything else in it. Though he still guiltily found himself wondering what it would be like to have Gwyneth look at him the way she might have looked at Calian. Just once, just so he would _know_; his curiosity about how someone like _her_ could ever be loving and tender without pretense, finally sated. In a distant dream was likely the only place he would ever encounter such a thing.

* * *

Her arms are crossed across her chest, one heel tapping against the marble floors in a rhythm that is driving the king mad, except he is an anxious as she is. The both of them watch with falling patience, the _ancient_ locksmith work on the chest, his face so full of wrinkles that its almost easy to miss the way even _more_ of them appear when the old man scrunches his forehead in consternation.

"Grmph! Hard lock, this. Good craftsmanship though, yes siree. 'Ere lad, hand me that driver would you?" His motioning to his apprentice, more in his thirties than a 'lad' but he does as he's asked, all the same.

"For the sake of all that is holy, _hurry it up_, man!" Gwyneth finally barks, arms now akimbo at her sides as she moves forward to watch the progress, or lack there of, as its proving.

The bored apprentice cleared his throat lightly. "Patience, Majesty. Master Harold needs time to pick a lock, like this one 'ere." His rustic accent the same as his master's. The apprentice bowed his head respectfully, and Alistair had to give the brunette man some credit for daring to speak when Gwyneth was in such a state.

"Tell him to get on with it then!" She screeched and the locksmith flinched, shaking his head ruefully as he went back to work. With an unladylike snort, Gwyneth rolled her eyes at the king, sidling next to him to lean into his shoulder conspiratorially. "Where did you dig up _this_ old bastard?" The redhead whispered. She's speaking to him without any ire directed at _him_, the previous evening's little spat nearly forgotten, and that's something, at least.

"_Gwyn-eth _. . ." The king's voice had a note of warning, though his patience was growing thin as well, after five hours of this nonsense, and _so_ . . . much . . . _pausin_g. "Really though, Master Harold, couldn't you go just a little _bit_ faster? We've been at this all morning and now it's getting on late afternoon and I'm sure we're all hungry." '_Or at least _I_ am_.' His stomach is growling at him, getting more and more persistent with every passing hour. '_Feed me, you royal ass_!' What had started as barely veiled anxiety and excitement, was now just boredom and hunger. The locksmith had the gall to merely wave off the sovereign.

Gwyneth had ordered privacy, against the spluttering of Eamon, who despite his age still had moments of almost child-like anxiousness. The queen assumed it was a male thing, and took nothing of his complaints to consideration. The chest belonged to Cailan, the late king and only the current king and his queen needed to be there, with the locksmith of course and an apprentice nearby. Gwyneth almost denied the brunette man entrance into the locked ante-chamber the four of them stood in, until she'd realized that the locksmith Alistair procured was in his eighties. _What on Thedas would she do if he keeled over from a heart attack? _And so, the apprentice stayed.

A loud click sounded out in the pregnant silence of the room, broken by the queen's jubilant cry of relief. "Oh, thank the Maker!" It was only her sense of propriety, brought out mostly when it was convenient, that kept the other thought rolling about in her busy head at bay. '_It's about bloody time_!' Gwyneth was quick to plaster a fine public relations smile on her face.

"Very good, Master Harold. We thank you for your services, and the lord steward in the great hall shall see to your payment." She beamed at them, all nicety and fine manners now that it was done. When the locksmith and his apprentice still stood there, the queen almost glowered. "You may _leave_." In case it wasn't obvious, she added a wave of both hands and waited until they were gone.

Alistair and Gwyneth looked at each other, like children set before the gifting tree during Satinalia. Deciding which one got to open the present first. Except it wasn't a festive event. Though they had both been bored but a few moments ago, now that it was done, each of them felt a growing disquiet, for their own private reasons.

It was a normal chest, finely made and quite large. The embellishments upon it would make it seem a garish thing to some. For all that, its purpose remained that of an object meant to be used for storage. If Alistair were to open it first, Cailan's ghost would not leap out at him, there would be no curse made on the sovereign's soul. Still he did not move, and did not protest when Gwyneth sank to her knees before the chest, her long blue gown billowing out around her slippered feet rather impressively.

"_Why don't you wield your father's blade?" The young Cousland quirked a brow at Cailan, the pair of them tucked into an alcove to escape the gossips at the solstice festival. The realm of questions not yet asked, brought to the fore in the face of trying to discuss matters that had very little to do with the bevy of activity that day._

_She'd seen him, watching intently if she was honest, on the practice field, having a sporting sword match with her brother, Fergus. Gwyneth knew of his father's prized blade, and the grand story of how the late King Maric had found it in the bowels of the Deep Roads, it's enchanted blade casting back the darkest, foulest taint of darkspawn. That Cailan did not use it, seemed a strange thing to her._

"_Why don't _you_ wield your grandmother's _bow_?" Cailan smirked in turn, the blonde brows above those blue eyes drawn down to create a wicked façade. He'd evaded the question, but only for a moment. His pretty, witty Gwyn was also a persistent sort and he'd have to answer sooner or later. However, the young blonde man did so enjoy playing verbal cat and mouse with her, a game they _both_ liked on occasion._

"_Mostly because she was an Orlesian, and everyone hated her, except my grandfather of course." Gwyneth shrugged a gown encased shoulder, as if she cared little for the subject. "Besides, you know I _abhor_ hunting. What else might I use it for? And don't say _combat archery_. Hunting and combat are both manly things, _filthy_ things, and I want no part of them. It's bad enough I'm made to spend a day a week in the training field with my brow-beating brother. I happen to be a rather stunning lady of the finest heritage, and I'd like to _keep _that image." She sniffed, turning her head just so, to catch an errant ringlet of dark red hair, tucking it back where it belonged; the lady's image maintained._

"_Well, well, aren't we up ourselves today?" With a short chuckle, the king glanced away, as if seeing past his present location, beyond to where his life was waiting. "Honestly? I can't say as I _never_ wanted to wield it, but when I see the bards writing stories of me, it's so much better with my _own_ blade and my _own_ glory etched on its surface."_

"_Surely it's not just laying around somewhere . . ." _

"_Oh, of course not. It's safe, always safe."_

Past that distant memory, the queen wonders if it will be in the chest sat before her, and with a deep breath she reached out to lift the heavy lid.

The chest came open finally, the lid pushed back to reveal the items covered with slightly soiled ivory cloth. Which was in good condition, all things considered. Hands were dug into the contents, almost tenderly pushing aside the cloth. Her face scrunched up in confusion to find nothing but a pile of jostled letters at the top, most tied up with bits of string. She felt, more than saw, Alistair peering over her, the sense of his body being ludicrously bigger than hers, made from their current difference in vantage points.

"Letters? That's _it_? I would've thought . . . hold on then . . . " The king had fallen down on his knees much as his queen, fingers seeking out the bit of sparkling blue that he'd caught a glimpse of.

At first it seemed like a long piece of bone, the metal worked as to look white, but as Alistair pulled the pummel of the weapon out from where it was buried in the chest, he realized it was no ordinary bone, but a sword of _dragon_ bone. Sapphires were encrusted into the hilt, though it was uncertain if it had been made that way, or if the gems were an addition. Blue runes were etched on the blade, a slight glow to them that pulsed when Alistair ran his long fingers across them.

"This . . . This sword is . . ." Words seemed to escape him, the obvious heavy enchantments on the weapon in his hand, tingling at the edges of his templar senses, never lost to him. It was a foreboding and alluring sensation that made his rich brown eyes darken with interest.

"It is your father's sword. It is King Maric's blade. The one of legend." Gwyneth's voice seemed humble and quiet as she stood in time with Alistair, as the young king drew the weapon from the chest, the scabbard lain beneath it, tucked into the cloth still.

"This is a _magnificent_ weapon." Full of astonishment, Alistair's found that his heart was divided. Never had Alistair owned or possessed a single thing belonging to his father. To hold the man's sword, one that he had read of as a boy, while anger and feelings of neglect built in him, was a shock in and of itself . . . _and yet_. So long had he wanted to bring Maric back, to ask him '_why._' The same questions left unanswered by Arl Eamon. _Why had Alistair not deserved a chance at a better life? Was Maric so ashamed to have bedded a servant that he couldn't even _look_ at the son he had fathered with a commoner?_ Maric had once been a young king himself, wielding the blade his second son now held. He'd been full of idealism, if the stories were true. _Why couldn't such a man accept Alistair? What was so wrong with that lonely boy, apart from the fact that his mother was a serving woman?_

The dragon bone blade represented far more than the sum of its parts, it represented a man that had been named 'savior' a man the people loved. A king that had fathered a sacred precious prince. A man who abandoned his other son to the care of one that was not even his natural family, where that boy had searched for crumbs of affection as a hungry urchin would for bits of bread. Eamon had done the best he could at first, but when Isolde came along, all that changed. Alistair thought he was past such reflections, but holding his father's sword in his hand, the cool feel of it there against his skin, proved too much.

Then, as abruptly as he had grabbed the sword, it fell from his hand, clattering loudly against the floor. Gwyneth was startled behind him, and Alistair turned to look at her. "I . . . I can't . . . I . . . " She was watching him, always watching, and it was all the man could take. "I . . . need to be alone." He dashed to the doors, throwing them back to the guards' startled faces.

"Alistair!" Gwyneth cried at his retreating back, but he was soon gone. On the marble tile was the rune blade, as lifeless as the king that had called it his own, and the prince that had never used it.


	22. Chapter 22: Behind Those Eyes

**Disclaimer: **_"Dragon Age: Origins" and all its expansions and additional content is the property of Bioware and EA Games. Large portions of written content within the game, as well as Dragon's Age: The Stolen Throne, and Dragon's Age: Calling, are the creation of David Gaider. Original scenarios and characters are used under the creative license of the writer, ItalianEmpress1985. No profit is being made and the following story is for entertainment purposes only._

_

* * *

_

**Words From The Author: **_Cailan's letters here are the legitimate letters that are collected from Cailan's chest in the DLC 'Return to Ostagar' I thought about changing them, but came to the decision that they were fine already. So though there is already a disclaimer for every chapter, I think I should go the extra bit of road here and say that the letters themselves are not my work and belong to the game, and are used in part for this piece of writing. They are put down here verbatim, so anyone that never played that particular DLC can still read them._

_A large thank you goes to my lovely one and only, who stayed with me into the twilight hours reciting over different takes on the scene with Alistair and Gwyneth in this chapter. I needed a male's perspective so I didn't 'girl it up' too much. While men and women can be equals to the letter, our minds don't work in concert and I think sometimes female and male writers both write the other gender too much from their own perspective. I know I've done the same in the past and wanted to avoid that fiercely in this story. _

_Poncey is a nastier __term__ for 'ridiculous', when used to describe a person, in case anyone who comes across that isn't familiar with the word, it isn't used that much anymore, but it just seemed to fit for Gwyneth._

_**Warning**__: The last section of this chapter may not be __safe__ for work and is especially rated 'M' Read at your own discretion. _

_Thank you for stopping in. Watch out for low flying dragons!_

_

* * *

_

_**Chapter Twenty Two:**_

_**Behind Those Eyes**_

_**

* * *

**_

_Is there something here to believe, _

_or is it just another part of the game?_

_Behind those eyes you lie, _

_behind those eyes you hide._

_- - _

_Three Doors Down_

_

* * *

_

May 29'th, 9:31 Dragon Age

**T**he king had not been at dinner, nor had anyone seen him wandering about near the royal chambers or the practice yard for the knights. At dinner, the local nobility, invited to court, had dined with the Steward of the Crown, his wife, the Court Mage and Her Majesty only. A few excuses were made, a 'the king had a bit of a headache' here, or a 'he was just so very tired' there. For the most part, they were accepted, and the evening passed without much event.

All but for the buzzing about the dining hall, excitement over Maric's blade having been recovered, and some precious royal jewels that had been in Cailan's chest. All of those things now properly secured. Among them, an impressive bit of business that had once belonged to Queen Rowan, supposedly, though the current queen had her doubts, weaned on tales that painted a different picture of Cailan's mother. She more imagined the fanciful necklace had been a gift from someone that hadn't known much about Maric's warrior queen.

Gwyneth nodded and smiled in all the right places, at all the right times. Adding in some flavor to the excitement when it was called for. Eamon had been quiet for most of it, but took part in the discussion of the strategic letters that had taken up the top half of the chest. Cailan had occasion to be called the Boy King by those not brave enough to speak of their feelings in public, and a wide eyed idealist by nobles that actually did have the stones for such accusations, but in the letters, there was a hint of a King Cailan that no one had seen. A man that did have some of a head for planning, for not _all_ things it seemed had been left up to Loghain. Despite the great failure that was Ostagar, much of that the queen laid at Loghain's dead feet, Gwyneth was pleased that at least her late and dear friend could have that much.

Nestled into the queen's jewelry chest were the _other_ letters, sealed with the crest belonging to the empress of Orlais. When Gwyneth had seen them, both an almost forgotten jealousy and an immediate suspicion overtook her, and she had snatched them up before Arl Eamon ever even entered the ante-chamber where Cailan's chest had been opened. Tucking them every place she could amidst her gown, she'd been quick to find an excuse to leave and bustle up to her private apartment before supper had been served. A smile curled her face at dinner, but inside she was incredibly anxious to get back at those letters.

As dinner wound down, she bid her goodnights and fare thee wells and was off like a bolt of lightning, taking the stairs two at a time as the curving staircase lead the queen to the upper floors. She placed a hand against the thick gray walls, the enduring stone hugging the stairwell as to make it nearly claustrophobic. Her gown's long skirt almost caught on her heels twice and she had to hike it up above her ankles. In hindsight, the redhead thought she might have taken the more open stairway, known and used by royal guests, but considering the somewhat suspicious rapidity of her walking, the private entrance was best. Two guards posted at the portcullis-like entry to the royal chamber hall, nodded at their sovereign's wife and moved to open the way for her.

Heels clacked down the long hall, the queen's gown rustling as she swept past the orange flames of the sconces. The long fancy braid done up in her hair bounced against her back as she made for her apartment, adjacent to the royal bedchamber where she spent her nights sleeping with the king.

The bed in the queen's private apartment had long ago been removed, as Gwyneth wanted everyone to know that she shared her _husband's_ bed nightly. She had seen the repercussions throughout court and beyond, that came with any other arrangement between a king and his queen consort. A collection of fine furniture _was_ within, however, covered in the Tevinter brocades that the queen favored in her attire, all light creams, rich golds and splashes of light blue and coral pink. The colors reminded Gwyneth of the sky at dawn. Grabbing a burning candlestick from the stand in the hall just outside her private space, she entered the room and lit the sconce nearest to her, moving immediately to shut the door firmly.

With a great sigh, brought by a welcome relaxation at last, she moved to where she kept her fine jewelry, a large trunk set with several shelves inside it, all lined with a thin velvet. There was a small creak as she kneeled to open it, and with one more heavy breath she pulled up one of the detachable shelves, careful not to jostle her fine pieces. It was there beneath the queen's wedding necklace, that Celene's letters to Cailan had been hidden.

Gwyneth grabbed them all, laying them atop her vanity and took a seat on the lushly padded stool. She smiled briefly at her reflection in the dim light of her apartment, almost a ritual with her, and went to open the first one. It was quite soon that she realized she must have grabbed the first letter by mistake. Arl Eamon's scrawling hand was clear to one who had read many of his addresses and speeches. Curiosity was one of her _admitted_ vices and she read it anyway.

_Your Majesty, _

_My men will arrive as soon as possible to bolster your forces. Maker willing, this Blight will be ended before it has begun. _

_Cailan, I beseech you, as your uncle, not to join the Grey Wardens on the field. You cannot afford to take this risk. Ferelden cannot afford it. Let me remind you again that you do not have an heir. Your death-and it pains me even to think of it-would plunge Ferelden into chaos. _

Gwyneth paused, and took a steadying breath, shoving down the grief that was trying to crawl up her throat.

_And yes, perhaps when this is over you will allow me to bring up the subject of your heir. While a son from both the Theirin and Mac Tir lines would unite Ferelden like no other, we must accept that perhaps this can never be. The queen approaches her thirtieth year and her ability to give you a child lessens with each passing month. I submit to you again that it might be time to put Anora aside. We parted harshly the last time I spoke of this, but it has been a full year since then and nothing has changed. _

_Please, nephew, consider my words, and Andraste's grace be with you. _

She knew how Cailan felt on the matter. Anora had been an excellent queen, if a poor wife, though even that had been suspect by certain individuals, the rumors changing as the seasons. Her political savvy was as renowned as that icy blonde beauty she had possessed. He hadn't wanted to get rid of her, not at first, but he caved eventually it seemed, even if Eamon had not realized it. Gwyneth almost sneered at Eamon's coyness. How he so 'gently' submitted his reasoning upon his nephew, while the whole time he already knew what noblewoman he was going to put forth as the second wife of Cailan Theirin. She might have done, except, the queen knew that she too was capable of the same thing. The pot is just as blackened as the kettle, and should not call the other so.

That letter was set aside, slid atop a large canister that contained Gwyneth's powder, the scent of the ground lilacs in it wafting out through the thin line around its cover. Manicured nails, _and how blissful it was to be able to have _those_ again_, plucked at the string tied around the next letter.

The seal had already been broken, and the redhead opened the folded linen paper easily enough. She was not as familiar with the empress' hand, but there had been a few letters that had come to the palace during Gwyneth's short reign to date, all in that flowing flowery script. The queen suspected that Celene herself might have been the same, though she'd never had cause to meet her, the late Teyrn Cousland had, and described the woman in detail. Gwyneth's father had never been wont to embellish a story, beyond entertaining his children with fanciful tales, _that_ talent had fallen more to her mother. The image of everything one thought of, when they imagined the nobility of Orlais, that was Celene. Blonde hair of an almost platinum shade, done always in fancy curls and worn in the most elaborate styles, eyes so light and piercingly blue as to see right through you. Gwyneth was _too_ well aware of her own jarring beauty, but it was quite different from the Orlesian attractions of the empress, and the young queen felt she might well have an even match with the woman over recognition of such a thing.

It was that imagined face she saw, as she began the second letter.

_To his Majesty, King Cailan of Ferelden: _

_My Warden-Commander assures me that we face a Blight. This thing threatens us both, and we must work together to fight it, lest it devour all. Our two nations have not had a happy history, but that is all it is - history. It is the future that is at stake now. Let us put aside our father's disagreements so that we may secure a future for both our countries. _

_My Chevaliers stand ready and will accompany the Grey Wardens of Orlais to Ferelden. At your word the might of Orlais will march to reinforce the Ferelden forces. _

_Sincerely, Empress Celene I _

That was nothing to get worked up over, though she suspected had the late Teyrn Loghain read it, he might have thought otherwise. Gwyneth was almost disappointed at the official quality of it, yet the empress had not used her family name as she had done in the letters to the Alistair. Which seemed a bit odd, but hardly significant. The redhead was beginning to think she'd gotten herself riled for nothing.

The last of the three letters Gwyneth had confiscated was more worn than the others, deep wrinkles across the pressed linen fibers, suggesting it had been crumpled more than once and smoothed out afterwards. Intrigued by that alone, the queen opened the correspondence slowly. Again she was met with Celene's delicate hand, and the familiarity that greeted her reading eyes made the queen start, her head jerking back in surprise before moving forward again, irises narrowing.

_Cailan, _

_The visit to Ferelden will be postponed indefinitely, due to the darkspawn problem. You understand, of course? The darkspawn have odd timing, don't they? Let us deal with them first. Once that is done we can further discuss a permanent alliance between Orlais and Ferelden. _

She hadn't even bothered to sign it, as if knowing that Cailan would never have any doubt it was from her and none of her vassals at court. Gwyneth could recall how the late king had spoken of the empress, always wont to call her merely 'Celene' in private discussions with Gwyn. There had been jealousy in that, just as there was now, burning and bitter, but beyond that the queen's mind came back to those two specific words. _Permanent alliance_. Silver eyes skimmed them, over and over, trying to wean insight.

Marriage. That was what a permanent alliance always meant, and as someone raised of nobility, Gwyneth was all too aware of that; had the same words used in context with _her_ during her select and failed engagements. Once to a far distant cousin of her mother's from Tevinter, another to an Orlesian marquis she'd never even met, and thirdly to Arl Rendon Howe's son, Thomas. All short lived and barely more than a notion, but still those two words had been there. A permanent alliance between Gwyneth's family and whichever prospective groom she had been briefly promised to.

'_It can't be right! It can't be! He was going to marry _me_, not _her_, _me_!'_ Even were it not for her parent's planning alongside Eamon's, those things Cailan himself had said to her the last time they'd spoken . . . she'd been so sure.

"_My uncle Eamon has been after me about finding a new queen, and I'm certain he has one in mind. A beautiful red-head that would drive any man to distraction."_ Cailan's words came back to her, whispered and fervent, his eyes alight with intent.

She'd been so sure.

He'd _kissed_ her, he had kissed her as if she was already his. He'd been wearing the amulet she'd gifted him, close to his heart.

She'd been so sure.

Thomas Howe had been horribly jealous when he heard the rumors of Lady Cousland and King Cailan. The words he'd spat at her, during one of his last visits to the family's estate, were still there in memory. Gwyneth had not thought upon Thomas in some time, but she did now.

"_Can't you see that he won't keep you? He will have you and toss you aside like a common harlot!"_

"_How _dare _you speak of our king in such a manner, and furthermore of _myself_! I have only had a few conversations with His Majesty, nothing more than that and though it certainly is none of your business, my father would have any man's head were he to make an attempt at bedding me before first _wedding_ me. King or no."_

"_You are a fool, Gwyn! A bloody fool of a twit!"_

He'd stormed off to Gwyneth's threats against his back, all shortened blonde hair and famed Howe irritability. She had seen Thomas a few times after that, and eventually he did calm himself over the matter, but they had no longer been friends. Gwyneth couldn't stand the man's jealousy . . . but perhaps he had been right, of a sort.

She had been so sure, so certain, and she had been _wrong_.

Her hands shook and she looked to the mirror again. No one else could see this letter, the connotations would be far too damaging to Cailan's reputation, already tarnished by rumors, and despite her jealousy and hurt, Gwyneth couldn't risk that. Not merely for Cailan's image, but her own as well. To have been played, to have been destined to be set aside . . . _no, she couldn't have anyone know that_. With slow, certain movements she took the letter to the abandoned candle stick, her eyes reflecting the lick of flame atop it . . . and she set it to burn, watching as the words turned to cinders.

* * *

There was the murmur of servants, and the distant noises of the palace settling down for the evening. The king had ordered that he was to be left alone, and though his absence for most of the afternoon and evening had given the servants pause, no one wanted to question their sovereign, not with his face looking so unhappy as it did.

He could hear the faint popping of the fire in the sconces, how it would snap as it danced, orange and bright, the white in the middle like a beacon. Alistair, King of Ferelden wasn't drawn to the light, but to the bust of his father, staring down the length of the hall with stone eyes, smiling as if well pleased by the turn of events after his death.

The man certainly would _not_ be pleased to learn that his friend had betrayed him, to the death of his son, and had nearly brought Ferelden to civil war. Neither would he be happy to hear that Loghain MacTir had been executed for high treason, by Maric's own son, the second and ill favored Alistair, though maybe if he knew what the man did he would at least understand. Now that Anora was gone, there were no MacTirs in existence and if Alistair didn't father an heir, neither would there be any more Theirins. No, he doubted the bust's smile was an accurate portrayal of how King Maric would feel had he been walking about.

"I'm here, despite what you did to make sure I wouldn't be. I want to know why. I want to know why I wasn't good enough for you." Alistair's voice was ragged, his shoulders almost limp at either side. All that he knew of what 'family' was suppose to mean, what they were suppose to be like, had never been so for him. He had affection for Eamon, for the man he now called 'uncle' alongside Teagan, _but were they more than impromptu titles used to create a sense of family towards the masses, so that they saw things that weren't so? _That the king's life had become as fake as his queen's oft times appeared to be, made him want to cringe. "Just tell me why . . . _please_, just tell me . . ." Deep brown eyes stared at Maric's stone face, pleading and bitter.

Maric's blade had been brought into the hall, lain next to the image of the once great king himself, the sapphires set into the hilt throwing a play of blue light against Alistair's cheeks. It caught the wetness there, as if searching for it on the man that knelt on the floor. So much had changed about Alistair, in so little a time it seemed, yet for all that, he remained saddened and plagued by the same doubts and questions that had chased after him all his life.

The doors that opened into the Hall of Heroes were quite heavy and could never open soundlessly. It was the noise of their great weight moving inward that startled Alistair from where he waited for an answer, heart pounding hard and slow beneath his ribs. He was quick to get to his feet, swiping at his face. "Who is it?" His voice sounded unusually deep, even to his own ears.

"Relax, dear boy, it's just me." Wynne's calming voice was followed by the woman's robe-clad form. She leaned on her staff heavily, fancy leather boots making a creaking noise beneath the hem of her burgundy robe as she shuffled into the hall. The mage smiled with affection for the young king. "I came to check on you, seeing as how you've been gone all evening."

"I'm sorry, Wynne, I know you're leaving and I should . . ." Alistair felt immediately cowed and repentant.

"Oh, nonsense, you've known I was leaving for some time, but it was only _today_ that you found your father's sword." She waved him off. "It's understandable, but I've been worried about you. You look so lost anymore." Bright blue eyes darkened with sympathy and she moved to put a thin hand against Alistair's shoulder.

Even with the difference in size, there was something about Wynne that made Alistair feel ever so much a young boy again, and it wasn't entirely unpleasant. He sagged again, leaning against one of the many pillars that kept the hall's ceiling supported. Now it offered the _king_ some support. "I . . . I _am_ lost Wynne." One hand ran through his lengthening hair, the braids he favored anymore moving and making the beads in them clink together.

There was silence then, one that Alistair knew he needed, and that Wynne realized she had to give him, where the king collected the pieces of his sanity; scattered here and there like papers on a messy desk. A long sigh was drawn out, followed by another, and at last brown eyes looked into blue ones. The face that held them was aged and kind and wonderful, full of an affection that Alistair had been drawn to but had never really known if he deserved.

"It's alright to feel lost, we _all_ lose our way sometimes. As long as you know your destination, you _can_ find the path again." The smile was cut into a thin line as an all too common fit of coughing racked the woman's thin frame. She felt the young king move to steady her, but she shook her head, white hair held back from her face by a simple band. "No, I'm fine, it will pass, they always do." Then there was Wynne, that calm assurance she exuded back in place. "Ah, Alistair, never get old, it's a terrible thing."

"You're dying." The words were simple as they passed through the blonde's full lips, but the feeling wasn't.

"We all have to, someday."

"Wynne . . ."

"No, I won't have you getting sentimental with _me_, young man, not when I've come to cheer _you_ up." Her free hand rested against the embroidered lapel of his waistcoat, some new bit of devious fashion Gwyneth had probably forced on him, and straightened it as a mother might; a habit she couldn't shed any more than her talent for magic. Though blissfully she no longer had to deal with darning his socks.

Alistair returned her smile, but made himself stand straight of his own accord. "I have to stop this, feeling sorry for myself, I _know_ that, it's just . . . well . . ." He spread a palm out, indicating the hall around him. "Sometimes its hard, when I'm being drowned by all _this_. I don't know how Cailan could stand it." That blonde head was shaken by its owner, the mind beneath as confused as ever. Stuck halfway between resentment and curiosity.

"You aren't him, anymore than you are Maric, you can't ever be."

"I know."

"Do you?" Wynne sighed, wearied by her encroaching mortality. "I think you tell yourself that, Alistair, because it makes you feel better, but then you find a piece of your father and stay holed up in here after everyone's headed off to bed to berate a man whose been gone most of your life."

He almost accuses of her eavesdropping, but stops short. Wynne had long represented what he thought a caring adult should be, the kind of person he would've _wanted_ to be raised by. The absurdity of one that had almost been made an avowed templar, feeling such for a mage, was not lost on him, but he spared it very little thought. Of course she hadn't been eavesdropping, she just knew, the way she _always_ just _knew_.

A laugh, not entirely bereft of humor, left his throat. "I am going to miss you, so _very_ much." The humor was gone, and a new sadness was there. "Wynne, after you leave, I won't have anyone here I can talk to. You know that, and you're _still_ leaving."

"You can talk to Gwyneth."

"Have you _met_ her? Loud, obnoxious, stubborn and . . . oh yes, _impossible_." He snorted, room enough in the jumbled mess of his mind to be irritated by his marriage in general.

"Yet you managed to befriend each other on the road over those six months, maybe it wasn't the _closest_ of friendships, maybe she was more an annoying little sister to you, but you were still friends. Look at who you are, who you were, and how unimaginable this might have all seemed once. Of all the fantastic things, good and bad, that have happened to you, somehow I doubt figuring out how to talk to your wife is that high on a list of impossibilities."

Alistair didn't know what to say to that, and for a long while he said nothing, while Wynne allowed the words to sink in.

"You can ask why Maric did what he did, but you won't get an answer, no matter how much you may want it." Her eyes were soft but steady, holding Alistair's gaze when he clearly wished to get away from the conversation. "I doubt even Eamon really knows, whether he would claim otherwise or not. Your father, your brother, they may not have _planned_ for you to be king, but you _are_ and _that's_ what you have to find a way to live with, _not_ the decisions of a man long gone from this world." Her dry palm was at his cheek, managing to make him feel small, despite the fact that she stood below his chin. "Your life isn't what you would've wished for, but you _can_ make it tolerable. Don't tell me you wouldn't feel comforted, even after I've left, if Gwyn was your friend again. Not everything has to be a misery, Alistair, not _everything_."

"You don't know about what happened at . . . You just don't know, Wynne. We _can't_ be friends, things can't go back to what they were before I became king." He pressed the heel of his palm into his closed eyes.

"No, they can't, and that's why you have to start anew. This is a new life for you, a situation wholly different from anything you have known before. If you try to approach this the way that the Alistair of old would've, of _course_ things won't work out, you have to approach this life as the _new_ Alistair that it represents."

"I hate it when you get complex on me."

Wynne chuckled at his familiar boyish churlishness, now knowing it for the shield that it was. "Yes well, at least there are some things that _never_ change." Her hand was there at his arm, giving it an affectionate squeeze, though the firmness of her grip had lessened greatly in the last month.

The onus was on him once again, but Alistair knew why Wynne wouldn't press her thoughts on Gwyneth instead. She would hardly be receptive, and the king wasn't very sure at all that coming at the problem from a different angle would help, but he was willing to humor Wynne. The elderly mage had earned at least that much peace before she left.

* * *

Thoughts of his father stayed with him as the young king trudged his way up to the royal chambers. No matter what Wynne told him, and no matter the respect he had for that woman, nothing could ever erase the nagging doubts that ate at him. Though, his favorite mage _had_ left him with a simplistic, temporary peace of mind. It relied heavily on his strained ability to put depressing thoughts aside for later, but peace there was.

Alistair drew in a lungful of the incense laden air of the long hall, before he opened the heavy and elaborate door to the chamber he currently shared with Gwyneth. He was not at all surprised by where she was, her silhouette obvious in the backlight of the sconces and candlesticks in the room proper.

"You know, if they ever do one of those fancy still-life bits, yours will be you standing at the balcony, looking somber as you take in the view of your kingdom." The bit of forced whimsy, came complete with a deep and overly characterized voice. Alistair knew he sounded silly, but it was far easier to approach Gwyneth that way than how he had done so before. "Gwyn? Gwyn are you . . ." Concerned at her lack of her response, and the suspect sniffling noise coming from her direction, his tone changed completely. Done in, as many men were, by a crying woman.

"No . . ." Quiet, but then forceful. "No. I'm fine, a bit of allergies, really. They always get after me this time of year." She sniffed, wiping at her face, and damning him for his horrible timing, though it wasn't really his fault. "And you?"

Alistair paused for a moment, locking the door behind him, as he processed what she was asking. "Oh . . . About the . . . You mean about this afternoon?"

Gwyneth sniffed again, this time in clear scathing amusement for his obtuseness. "_Yes_, this afternoon. You did leave me in a tight spot for dinner you know." She had yet to turn her face back to the royal bedchamber, the safety of the balcony's shadows seductive for the small sanctuary they provided.

"Yeah, I know. I'm sorry for that, I just . . . I needed time to think."

"And have you? Thought?"

"Maybe _too_ much." He smirked, ready that time for one of her sassy retorts, but none of the typical ones were forthcoming, and the smirk became a confused frown. "Gwyn, is something bothering you?"

"No more than usual, no." She paused, shuffling against the banister that the tall woman's weight was pressed into. "Tell me, have you received many letters from Empress Celene?"

Alistair was ill prepared for political talk, and his mind took a few moments to catch up. "Well, there was that first one that you read with me, and she sent one after the wedding and there was another waiting for me when we got back from Ostagar."

"Addressed to _you_?"

"Yes."

"What were they about?"

"I don't know, more of the same, wishing me well, wanting to sustain a peace between Orlais and Ferelden. She said she wanted to create an alliance that would outlast the years that bad blood separated our people, or something dramatic like that." Alistair furrowed his brow, shrugging off his waist coat as he went behind the screen to change his clothes for bed. "Gwyn, if you want to read them, Eamon has them in his office along with the letters from the Grand Prince of Antiva and the Holy Emperor of Tevinter you like so much. Just go look at them." He carefully extracted himself from his buttoned tunic, not willing to get his hair caught like had done before. "I don't see why you're asking about it all of sudden, anyway, it's not like . . . Hello." Alistair almost jumped to find that the queen had silently made her way over to the screen, to stand before him, silver eyes dark enough to be almost grey, cheekbones colored a suspicious ruddy hue.

"Hello." She returned the greeting with far less surprise, putting her hands on his arm, wrapping long fingers under the white fine fabric of his tunic. "Let me help you." The garment was gently removed and she felt the king watching her as she dug his night-breeches out of the dresser. "No tunic tonight, I'm assuming."

"Ahh, no." The young king was immediately on alert. If Gwyn was in a intemperate mood when he came in, there's no way she would be so accommodating so suddenly. "You don't have to help me, I can . . ."

Two fingers were pressed against his mouth, and she caught him with her eyes. "I want to." With a shrug she started to move her fingers towards the ties of his breeches but he stopped her.

"Gwyn, you're in a strange way tonight, what's going on?"

She brushed an errant curl of cinnamon hair away from her face, looking entirely nonchalant. "I've been thinking a lot today, I suppose that we _both_ have. I've needed my space, today you needed yours and I respected that." Her neck was held to keep her head held high, the image of austerity. "However . . ." Gwyn let her voice drop low, looking up at Alistair through her lashes to gauge his response. "Maybe we need to be included in one another's lives more."

"If this is about the letters from the empress . . ." Alistair let his words hang, feeling as if he was walking on a fractured ice pond, any wrong step and it would crack and he'd fall right in. "You don't exactly share all the correspondences sent in _your_ name either."

Eyes were narrowed for the briefest second and the redhead fought her nature down to make sure she could see this through. She wouldn't allow Celene to get at Alistair the way she had apparently gotten to Cailan. Gwyneth _refused_ to let that happen, _she would _not_ be outmaneuvered by some poncey Orlesian!_ The scowl that threatened at the corners of her mouth, instead became a placating smile. "Yes, I know, and I'm saying that we should . . . _share_, more often. But if you insist on dressing yourself, by all means, have at it." She made a cute bow, and turned away from him, leaving him feeling perplexed.

Subtlety didn't seem to be working, and the conniving corners of the redhead's mind tried to find an answer. Maybe something drastic was in order.

One hand went to the v of her nightgown, past her robe, and clasped Cailan's amulet so fiercely in her palm she nearly pierced the skin with those golden dragon wings. She still wasn't certain why she kept it, why she wore it, but it couldn't remain around her neck all night, and so she unclasped it, to lay the amulet on the bedside table. Her eyes clamped shut, and though no tears escaped, Gwyneth felt them threatening. Yet, as she headed for the large bed, her steps were steady and her shoulders straight. She took in several deep breaths and reminded herself of her family motto, of her father's motto. Which may have seemed an inappropriate thing, considering what she was about just then, but Gwyneth wasn't feeling particularly appropriate that evening, and she needed the courage it gave her.

'_I am a Cousland, I can do _anything_.'_

Both hands were shaking and she had to take in another lungful of air. Finally, she calmed, told herself that she was no novice at winning others over, but never so much in _this_ context, certainly, since before her return to Ostagar she had been a virgin. "Are you almost done? You should come to bed, the day has been too long already." The woman's voice was steady enough, with just that hint of edge that Gwyneth could never quite get rid of when her nerves were jumping.

She propped herself up on the mattress, leaving her robe in a heap by the bed. Those long fingers began to loosen the ties of her nightgown, the white fabric of it revealing the sun kissed skin beneath. The queen would have to take care to avoid the sun for some time in future, it wasn't proper for a Fereldish lady of good breeding to have such tanned skinned, it could cause freckles and blemishes and all other manner of nonsense. Now, more than ever, her image was of supreme importance, and she told herself that as she moved to let the nightgown slide down her legs, leaving her body free of trappings.

"Yes, yes, what's your _hurry_? I don't know what's gotten into you tonight but I . . ." Alistair came from behind the screen, tying the strings of his night breeches, but his movements stopped when he saw Gwyneth, his mouth almost falling open. "You . . . You're . . ."

"I'm hot." She pouted in complaint, leaning back on her elbows, her breasts only half covered by the length of dark red ringlets she had let fall over her shoulders and across her chest. Gwyneth bit her lip as she tossed her head, that long curtain moving to reveal one creamy globe in its entirety, the dark tempting berry atop it hardened by the air of the chamber.

"Yes you _are_." Dark brown eyes got even darker, his voice one of male appreciation before he snapped out of it, looking away quickly. "No, that's not what I mean, I mean, yes it _is_ hot in here, but . . ." Where words failed him, his roaming irises didn't, moving almost of their own volition out of corner of his eyes, where her silhouette was not at _all_ shadowed. "Gwyn . . . Gwyneth . . . Gwyn-eth."

"That _is_ my name, yes." The lady in question smirked, her own nerves well hidden behind a practiced mask of composure and seductive intent.

He wasn't an idiot, he knew exactly what that intent was. He _knew_, he just couldn't _believe_ it. "You can't really want to . . . with _me_ . . .

There was that pout again, managing to be both innocent and sultry, a complexity that resembled Gwyneth herself. Even _she_ wasn't ignorant to how fractured a personality she possessed. "And why _can't_ I want to? I said we should share more, this . . ." She motioned to herself, one arm extended out as her hand swept from ribs to hip. "Is sharing."

It'd been so long since Leliana, and his last coupling with the exasperating redhead laying in the bed before him had been too raw. There had been no time to enjoy just being with someone. Alistair would be dishonest with himself if he denied that he didn't want to accept the gift she was offering, but he knew how she played with people, knew her conniving nature. It was too sudden, and too departed from Gwyneth's usual ways.

A steady throbbing began below the waist of his breeches and he groaned, both hands in his hair as if almost ready to tear it out. An erection was building despite the cries of caution, ringing like church bells at noon, inside his mind. "No. No, no, no." The blonde wasn't sure if the denial was more for Gwyn, or himself. Bare feet carried him towards the door, and where he would go after that, he didn't know. All the young king knew was that he had to get out of there, and away from the temptress whose voice was calling him to his doom like the sirens of old drew sailors to the rocks that were their death.

"_What_?" Immediately shocked that it hadn't worked, Gwyneth grabbed her robe from the floor in a swift motion, carelessly throwing it about herself where it hung open, only partially obscuring her body. "What do you mean '_no_'? I'm offering myself to you, and your answer is 'no'?" Her voice had changed from something seductive, to a far harsher tone.

Suddenly filled with anger, anger for his father, his brother, Eamon, Gwyneth and himself, Alistair found that his nerves were screaming with that feeling of barely restrained rage. He whirled on her as she made to come at him, and Gwyneth stopped short as she nearly ran into his chest. His face set into a snarl, he put one hand firmly against her neck, moving to change their positions where she was now pressed against the door. The redhead's face registered her shock.

"How dare you use me like this! _All_ of you! You think I don't know that you're playing with me? You insufferable bitch! Do you have any idea how I felt today, do you even care? You aren't offering me _anything_ but a way for you to leash me, collar me to do what _you _want." His face was less than a breadth from her, something dark and deep inside him taking enjoyment from the fearful surprise that was set into her silver eyes. Something he wanted to be ashamed of, but he couldn't. "I wish I could hate you."

Gwyneth hadn't lost all of her nerve, but she hadn't expected his temper and it almost made her cry, like the spoiled girl he would accuse her of being. Yet, she kept her own temper, almost spitting it at him. "Why don't you then, you _bastard_? You think I care? I don't at all! Hate me, blame me, shout at me! Do it!" She shrieked at him while his broad hand was still holding her prostrate against the door.

"I can't!" The admission was wrenched out of him, such a misery on his face that Gwyneth nearly softened, but before anymore could be said, he kissed her.

It wasn't the chaste and uncomfortable kiss of their wedding, or the hard kiss meant to silence her screams at Ostagar, this was something else, and the young queen didn't know quite how to respond. Her hands unfurled from the fists they were in and slid around his neck, using him as support while she was pressed into the unyielding wood of the door.

Alistair moved his mouth away from hers, taking a deep and tortured breath. His voice was barely more than a whisper, full of an anguish that had only been built higher that day. "I can't take anymore of this."

"Can't take anymore of what?" Gwyneth managed to croak out, feeling far too vulnerable for her tastes, but unable to create a façade to cover it up.

The King of Ferelden just looked at his wife, just took her in without thinking about it. In the light of the room he could see every facet of her face. The high cheekbones, and the arched brows, the lips bruised a flushed pink from the press of his own. How someone like her could ever look innocent, he didn't know, because she certainly wasn't. Still, her face was her own, so lovely, but so bereft of anything resembling an honest affection anymore. But now . . . there was something there, behind those eyes there was something different. "Tell me this isn't a game, tell me you mean it." Alistair intended it to be beggary, but his voice sounded commanding instead.

Everything would depend on the validity of Gwyneth's answer and she could feel the pressure of that against her tongue, making it weighted. They weren't children playing at being adults anymore, they were the king and queen of a nation, and if she had any hope of sealing the union, to keep others from stealing it away, she had to make him believe her. With every morsel of sincerity she could muster, Gwyneth returned that searching gaze of his with one of her own. "This is not a game, and I mean it more than is wise."

He grabbed her legs, pulling them up to either side of his hips, and carried his wife back to the bed. Alistair found himself repeating that title over and over inside his head. '_My wife, my wife, my wife_' As a reminder of what she was, or of what she should be, what he couldn't get away from.

She was pliant in a way that Leliana had not been, lacking the experience of that other woman, and lacking anything that Alistair could confuse them with. Just as it had been at Ostagar, he was too starkly reminded that there was little similarity between the women, but this time he found that anything beyond Gwyneth herself was so hazy and distant as to be a dream. Guilt for that would likely come later, he knew, but right in that moment, there was only his queen. Though it remained holy and right, still, it felt wrong and sinful, the same as before, but Alistair had long passed the point of caring.

Gwyneth went to reach for the ties of his breeches, breathless and ready in a way that was utterly visceral, but his hands stopped her.

"No, it won't be like last time Gwyn. I want to look at you." His was voice so rough it almost didn't sound like his own, though he knew the pulsing desire he felt was all his.

There were no shadows to hide her, no clothes to cover what the Maker had given her freely. Alistair did indeed look at her, every curve and dip of her skin, and when his eyes found her ample breasts, he lowered his head to taste them.

Gwyn bit her lip as she arched her back to press herself into him, words escaping any thought she could manage to create. She had intended to maintain control this time, but it hadn't worked, and instead she found that she was once again the submissive woman beneath the hands of a man she never would've thought could be dominant. But he was, he _really_ was. One taught nipple was caught between his teeth as the king lavished it with attention and the queen could no longer keep her silence, a sharp hiss followed by a keening moan escaped her mouth.

'_Maker, her noises!'_ Alistair had never been this way, he'd felt lust, and had known sins of the flesh, though never had he felt like a hungry beast, consumed with a dark desire. The way such a cold woman would cry out for him, would wail and moan, broke open something inside him, something dripping with poisonous sin. The king knew that he was the one that made her behave like that, brought such reactions out of her, and that knowledge gave him a heady power.

When Gwyneth felt those sword-calloused palms sliding between her thighs, drawing that heated moisture from her, it was too much. The sensation more than she could handle and she said his name, begged, as her own hands moved to stop him. There was a brief second where Alistair looked at her, such dark depth in his eyes that she lost her voice, then he grabbed both of her wrists and held them tightly against the mattress at her side, while he continued to make her writhe.

The muscles of his chest flexed as he moved, and Gwyneth watched him, panting and nervous. His skin was golden, looking carved by talented hands as he moved. Everything about Alistair seemed to exude power, and when he took his breeches off, she could see that he was every bit a man. It surprised her, the masculinity that rolled off him in waves, and her eyes widened as he grabbed her hips to slide inside her without a word said. Just that primal drive she'd felt before, but this time there was no pain to accompany it, and when the queen gasped it was not with discomfort.

Alistair moaned, as he sank into the wonderfully tight and hot embrace of his queen's most intimate place. When he let her wrists go, she put them over his shoulders and as he began to thrust, both of them moaning with the movement, he felt her nails against his skin. The slight pain made him move harder, almost slamming into her as her long legs wrapped over his hips, her thighs clenching against him, holding him there. He gasped, leaning down to bite at her neck in his desperate consuming need.

She cried out at the pain, his teeth thin and sharp, but it pulsed in time with the center of her, clenching around her husband. Her muscles worked as his did, in concert to create something of their coupling that would bring them both a much needed release. Gwyneth could feel that peak of pleasure fast approaching, and when her body stiffened, she screamed with the force of it, arching high into him, nails digging into his back.

There was no motion made to silence her scream, Alistair lusted for it, and her nails against him only pushed him to his own climax. Driving her into the mattress, he groaned long and loud, the pressure building from somewhere in his lower abdomen, to where it would find an escape. Her name was a yell of possession as he felt himself emptying inside her. His seed was so forceful that it spilled out, to make her thighs sticky with it.

He fell on her, resting his forehead against Gwyneth's collarbone, his breath warm and shoulders still shaking in the orange light of the candles. Giving himself a moment, Alistair rolled over to his own side of the bed, taking his wife's hand and stroking the knuckles absently.

Gwyneth flinched as she came down from her own high, but Alistair seemed not to notice. Being lost in the moment, it was easy to put aside every other thought, but now, without him there between her thighs, everything began to flood back inside her mind. As her king kissed the knuckles he yet held, she wasn't sure if what she'd done had been a good idea. Still, as Alistair left her side to go put the candles out, Gwyneth smiled, a cat-like expression of victory. _Celene would not win this one so easily._


	23. Chapter 23: Genuflection

**Disclaimer:** _"Dragon Age: Origins" and all its expansions and additional content is the property of Bioware and EA Games. Large portions of written content within the game, as well as Dragon's Age: The Stolen Throne, and Dragon's Age: Calling, are the creation of David Gaider. "Book of Nine" is the property of Aerilith Sommers. Original scenarios and characters are used under the creative license of the writer, ItalianEmpress1985. No profit is being made and the following story is for entertainment purposes only._

* * *

**Words From The Author: **_'What try' isn't a typo if you come across it later, it's a more antique speech pattern, though I know not everyone is familiar, since I'm such a weirdo and that's the only reason I know. :p_

_There's so much that I want to do, and already have planned out, but it is going to take months and years for this stuff to occur in the story (not OUR time, don't worry) however I don't do very big time jumps ahead, or I haven't so far. Pretty much I have tried to treat the royal couple with kid gloves. Nothing is worse than __character development__ flying in out of left field, knocking you unconscious and giving you a black eye. _

_So . . . I'm thinking that after we get to the Amaranthine events, that I might use the bulk of the actual GAME events for Awakening as the point where I do that jump. I don't want to write Gerod's (Gerod Caron, main PC for Awakening that I used) story so much that he eclipses the leads here, because when you __start__ doing THAT you either have to be supreme-writer-deity-on-high, which I'm not, to pull it off, or that's when your story jumps the shark and misses. *cue Jaws theme here* So if there's a fairly big chunk of time jump sooner rather than later, I hope you stay with me. I just know some development WON'T happen if the in-story time doesn't move forward more than it is._

_This chapter doesn't have too much action or intrigue going on, more a lot of boring relationship stuff. :p I'm joking of course, I don't think it's boring, but it is what is commonly referred to as a 'bridge chapter' so I hope that even so, it was still worth the bit of wait. Now I'm off to go do some decorating for Halloween, tombstones in my front yard for the __win__, and with that said Happy October everyone!_

_Thank you for stopping in. Watch out for low flying dragons!_

* * *

_**Chapter Twenty Three:**_

_**Genuflection**_

* * *

_She would bend, servile upon her knees, offering up true service and honesty._

_As my bride, certainly, as my queen, it would seem so._

'_This is genuflection' She would say, her head bowed._

_Beneath however, I knew that it was but an illusion._

_Those who hold the key, never bow to offer it, they only appear to._

_- - __King Garis__ - excerpt from 'Book of Nine'_

* * *

May 30'th, 9:31 Dragon Age

"**O**h Your Majesty, your sword, it's so . . . so _big_, whatever shall I do with it?" A masculine voice, trying to speak like a woman.

"Fear not My Queen, it isn't the _size_ of your sword that matters, it's how you _wield_ it." Another masculine voice, made overly so.

A pair of watchmen, on the night shift and almost off for the change of the guard in the morning, snicker to each other. Normally their's is a boring job, but last night their sovereigns exertions had kept them entertained for a time, or at least from what noises came through the walls.

"Davies was out making rounds in the gardens, watching for them knife-ears what try to get over the wall and steal the queen's vegetables. Came by here this morning. He said they must've left the balcony doors _wide_ open. Said it sounded like a yowling cat up there." One man whispered to the other, their snickering brought on anew.

The clacking of heels coming up the grand staircase silenced them, their backs going stiff as they tried to look respectable.

Lady Siofra had a basket in one hand and her light blue skirts gathered in the other, blonde curls pinned up to leave both her neck and pointed ears exposed. She nodded at the guards, passing them by with nary a word.

"Hey there, knife . . . ahh, milady. Just a friendly suggestion, but you ought to be ready for the queen's laryngitis." One guard piped up, the other trying not to laugh.

"Pardon?" One brow was raised on the elven beauty's face, bonny blue eyes surprised and wide at the unexpected warning.

"You know, her throat being raw and such, so as she can't speak too loud."

"Why on Thedas would she have laryngitis? She wasn't ill last evening when I checked on her."

"Search me, milady. Just what I've been hearing down the hall since last night."

At that, the man's partner had a sudden fit of suspicious coughing.

Siofra shook her head, clearly confused as she knocked at the door to the queen's apartment. There was no answer.

"You might want to check the royal bedchamber, I don't think Her Majesty has left the king's side yet. Haven't seen her, leastwise." The ever helpful guard added, biting the inside of his cheeks so his guffaws of humor wouldn't escape.

Siofra gave the two men a highly suspect glance before going to door they suggested, rapping lightly.

* * *

_Her bare feet touch the grass, heavy with dew, but warm in the summer heat of the evening. There is a shadow that caresses the queen's skin as she walks through the garden, passing by her favorite flora, only examining them for a short while before moving on to the next. The brush of her nightgown across the manicured lawns of the palace is a comforting sound, rasping but pleasant._

_There is moonlight, but it flickers, dusky clouds moving across the sky frequently obscure its glow. Gwyneth moves through the fractured illumination as if in a trance, until she sees a familiar figure, leaning against a pear tree._

"_Why are you doing this?" He asks._

"_You're dead." She puts a hand to her throat. With shock or sorrow, she cannot say. This is unlike other dreams._

"_Yes I am, and you betray my memory with all of this." Cailan stood to his full height, looking relaxed in a thin white tunic, the darkness of his finely woven breeches making his legs look impossibly long. There is no condemnation in his eyes, just hurt._

"_Don't look at me like that, not after what you did to me! You were going to marry _her_! And what? I would've been your mistress, your _whore_?" The woman's anger surges, and she walks to slap him, but he takes her wrists, thumbs rubbing circles against the pulsing skin there._

"_Oh, Gwyneth, sweetheart. Is _that_ what you think? You know me, better than anyone, you can't _really_ think I would ever do that to _you_." His eyes are so blue and deep, pools that any woman could fall into._

'And more the fool, she who does_.' Gwyneth thinks without pause. "I saw the letters Celene wrote you, I saw the discussion of your 'permanent alliance'"_

"_Words, Gwyn, just words." He goes to embrace her, to kiss her dark red hair, but she yanks herself away from him, and still those eyes of his are so sad and longing, while hers are white hot and incensed._

"_They were 'just words' that you spoke to _me_! How dare you! I am a Cousland, I am five _centuries_ of blue blood, of _true_ nobility, you insult me and my entire family, had you ever thought that one such as _I _would be _anyone's_ whore!" The viper in her is released with fervor, the venom on those fangs full of a sense of entitlement._

_Still, the dead king does not rail against her, does not shout in defense or offense, only smiles, melancholic and resigned, as if he knows his argument will be moot, but Cailan was always the stubborn sort. "No, my pretty, witty, Gwyn. You're wrong. I never thought of you as anything less than my most prized jewel. Where your heart is now so cold, still you must know somewhere inside you, that you possessed me. That night at Ostagar, beyond the field and my dashed dreams there, only _you_ remained in my mind, always that pleasurable poison. I would've died to have you, to utterly have you, where lesser men could not . . . and die I did, but never did I seek you by my side as a harlot. You are of noble blood, true and well bred, you would've made a lovely queen, you would've given me a son, a prince for Ferelden, I know it."_

_Gwyneth closes her eyes, unwilling to look at Cailan's face. "I saw the letter and I know your ways, always flirting with this woman or the next, it was hardly a secret that your sanctity with your vows amounted to little in the end. Why should I believe you would've held any sanctity with _me_ either?" She stops, wheeling on him, jabbing that broad chest. "And you would liken me to a _poison_?"_

"_Isn't that what you are? Tempting but deadly, running through a man like firewine, as alluring as black lotus and as dangerous as deathroot." She won't respond, so he changes his tone, catching the woman's attention. "I never sought a second marriage at the start, my uncle pushed for it, and then Celene made her offer, and I nearly accepted after Anora's coldness and her failure to give me an heir. Though, honestly, it would've been a good union, surely you must know this."_

"_I _do_ know, and now she seeks to usurp another queen, _myself_!"_

_Cailan shakes his head at that outburst, moving towards her even as she backs up. "She won't, you won't let her, will you sweetheart? I know you, I know that you can be a dark woman, devious beyond petty things. That you are now queen . . . It gives you more power for your games, but you don't have to do this."_

"_Yes, I do." Gwyneth feels tears stinging at her eyes, arms crossed over her chest. "I _cannot_ lose, I _refuse_ to!"_

"_You needn't resort to darker agendas. Everything you need for victory, you already possess." Calian's voice is low and hungry, an intent there that Gwyneth is familiar with. Lust._

"_What are you talking about?" She stiffens when he wraps his arms around her waist, hands against the redhead's ribs, pressing her back to his chest. His mouth is at the corner of her neck, breathing in the scent of her._

"_You are as I said, a pleasurable poison, and an addictive one. I was mad for you, and that madness gave you a power over me that I tried to fight, but I couldn't. Before it fell apart, I already was certain of my path, and _you_ were upon it, not Celene. _You_ were the one that had ensorcelled me. You know your own talents Gwyneth, you always did. You'll poison my brother too, won't you?"_

"_No, I . . ." Her protestation is cut off by a gasp of surprise when Cailan takes his teeth to her neck and bites, sensual and pleasing in the light pain it causes. That it's deviant behavior, is clear, but it does not remove the pleasure of the biting. It seems familiar, and yet wrong, as if another had done such a thing._

"_You got under my skin, you intoxicated my every thought with wanting to posses you, and yet though I thought I had power, it was you that held it over my head. You are poison, pleasure and promises." Cailan's voice is heavy in her ear. "We all decide how much sin we can live with, and you have made that decision. The rest is only damnation and silence."_

There was no ragged scream, a face sweaty with fear, that which had come after other nightmares, only wide eyes and a sharp breath as the Queen of Ferelden awoke to early morning light, yellow and frail. It snuck in through the still-open doors of the balcony. A faint wind was coming through, and the obnoxious pecking of a wood-pecker somewhere out in the royal garden.

Gwyneth blinked, laying on her back with the bedspread falling just below her breasts, left uncovered from the evening previous. A brief glance was sent to the figure of the king beside her, equally unclothed, snoring light enough that it didn't bother her, and murmuring in his sleep. She imagined it was Leliana's name Alistair was trying to summon from the Fade of Dreams. '_Good, better he think on _her_ than _I.' The thought almost surprises her in its validity, considering her un-admitted displeasure to that before, but then, it _would_ save her having to deal with any affections that may have stemmed from her coupling with the man last night. _Not that she imagines things will remain unchanged, such a thing is doubtful_.

She laid there for some time, thinking heavy thoughts, the kind that usually frequent her mind, both sleeping and awake. A hand reached out to grasp for Cailan's amulet where it had been left on the bedside table. For a moment, Gwyneth wasn't sure she wanted it. Anger was ready to surge, and she knew that Cailan's reassurances and upsets were nothing more than her own imagination . . . _and yet_. The queen bit her lip, eyes straying to the amulet that was laying in her palm, and she slowly closed her fingers around it and brought the golden dragon to her chest, holding it there with her lids shut tightly. She wanted to let go of any fancy she held for Cailan, and yearned even more to believe she never had any. _It would be safer, it would be better, but it wouldn't be the truth_. With a sigh, she clasped it around her neck as the tall woman went to sit up in bed, the sheet now pooled across her thighs, and sliding away as she clambered from the bed with a groggy groan.

No more had the queen gotten her discarded night robe on when a rap came at the heavy door. Gwyneth looked at it with surprise, eyes traveling to the horizon visible through the windows and the open balcony. '_Surely it isn't the breakfast hour _yet.' "Ah, yes, just a moment." She answers, trying to be quiet enough not to wake her husband, only to find that her throat burns at the back, her voice coming out raspy, but still strong.

The door was opened to Siofra's bewildered face, the Lady in Waiting quick to bow her head at the queen-consort. The elf soon composed herself, gently tucking a wayward curl of honey-blonde behind one pointed ear. "Good morning Majesty. I have brought the ribbons for your hair as so requested yesterday, some chamomile oil for your neck as I recall you saying it was hurting, and . . ."

"Shh, shh, shh!" Gwyneth warned with a whisper, one hand at her lady's shoulder while the other still rested on the edge of the door. "Come in out of the hall, but be quiet about it, His Highness is sleeping still." Her voice cracked even with the whispering and she brought her fingers to rest against her scratchy throat.

"Oh dear, you really _do_ have laryngitis!" Siofra clucked her tongue against the roof of her mouth fretfully. "I should go down to the kitchens and fetch . . ."

"_Laryngitis_? Goodness, no, I'm fine, just a dry throat and bit sore, that's all." Gwyneth shut the door behind Siofra, gingerly locking it without making a lot of noise, eyes straying to Alistair, hibernating under the sheet as one arm was visible on the pillow above his head. She craned her head back, motioning to the screen, as Siofra bowed again and both women went to go behind it. Once they were situated, and the elf had begun working at the queen's hair, the question finally came. "Why would you think I had laryngitis?"

Siofra felt her back stiffen at least a few moments before her hands paused in their busy work, a gold and green ribbon caught between two fingers where it was ready to be woven into the beginnings of the queen's braid. "Sorry?" That perfect composure the elf worked on faltered for a bit.

She always made certain to behave just sweet enough to appear loyal, but not so much so as to appear false, she did every task asked of her without complaint or failure, and made certain that it remained so. Elves did not so often get positions like hers, and already Queen Gwyneth had mentioned she wanted maid servants to attend her at dressings and baths instead of her lady. '_Did that mean she was displeased?' _Siofra didn't know, and now, at the tall human's curious tone, the Lady in Waiting tensed before answering.

"Well, the guardsmen posted at the entrance to the Royal Hall, at least one of them, seemed most adamant that you were indeed afflicted, Your Majesty. He said something to the affect that he heard of as much down the hall this evening just past." With a deep breath, the blonde elf plastered a smile on her face as the queen turned on the stool to look at her, one dark red brow up. "I . . . I apologize Highness, I should not have made assumptions on idle gossip." Though she whispered, Siofra felt no better for it, and just being in that room made her feel on edge, with the king laying not far from them and hardly in a decent state of dress from what she had seen, not that she was looking. _'Maker no! Of course not!'_

The exclamation from the queen's mouth was a low volume, but not calm in the least. "Damn it all to hell!"

"Majesty, is something the matter?"

Gwyneth paused, knuckles curled and pressed against the bones in her jaw. Her mouth opened and then closed as she changed her mind. Clearly her noises last night had been heard, and not only was there some obvious embarrassment that she had gotten so loud, but anger that the guards would dare make such wise remarks about it. '_Laryngitis indeed!' _"Are they still there, the guards?"

"I . . . yes, shall I fetch them to the audience hall this morning, before breakfast?"

"No, I have far too much planned today. Do you have my list?"

Siofra nodded, going to the basket to unfurl a rolled parchment. "You have breakfast with Steward and Arlessa Guerrein, Mistress Wynne and His Majesty, then you have set up a small audience to take in the concerns of the elves you ordered brought from the alienage. There is a meeting at midday at the king's behest to discuss matters of a privy council, after that you have set aside time around the second of the afternoon hour for a private tea with Mistress Wynne. Then you wished to visit the Denerim Chantry to discuss building a chapel here at the palace, after that you wanted to stop at the Merchant Quarter and see how the efforts of rebuilding have come along, then there is dinner of course . . ."

Gwyneth tapped her fingers against her jaw in contemplation. "How much time did I allot for the elves?"

"Hmm, let me see . . . an hour."

The queen nodded, her decision made. "Whittle the audience with the elves down to forty minutes, put a notation to have someone in one of the antechambers waiting with an hour glass so they can send a messenger to let me know when it's past. Someone capable of simple measurement, none of those idiots that make up my royal pages. Perhaps one of the maids from the kitchens, they should be used to measurement and timing. Discreet if you please, we needn't have the elves thinking The Crown does not value their time as well as our own. After that I want those two guards brought to me, without their armor and without any weapons. I don't care for such heavy accoutrements in my Royal Hall."

Siofra pressed her hands together as she set aside the parchment, bowing once more. "It shall be as My Queen commands."

"And Siofra . . ."

"Yes Majesty?"

"I want you there for the elven council. They are your relatives, the Tabris family, are they not?"

Siofra stopped, caught out and fidgety at this new attention. "Ah, yes, yes they are. I wasn't aware _they_ were the elves you had invited."

Gwyneth smiled. "I thought you might enjoy a visit."

"Actually, I have not seen my family since I was just a babe, I doubt they would recognize me at all. Not to cast aspersions on Your Highness' thoughts on the matter of course." The blonde elf folded her hands, shaking her head delicately. "I'm just not certain as to what assistance I may offer."

Gwyneth waved the petite elf away with one ringed hand. The wedding band always there as a constant reminder of what she was. "Pish posh, once I introduce you as a Tabris, that alone should improve the atmosphere of the Royal Hall, and I certainly shall require you there beside me to further that point."

"As Her Majesty wishes."

"I do indeed."

* * *

Someone was humming off tune, not loud, and almost at a volume that suggested the perpetrator might not even realize they were doing so. It was to that sound that the King of Ferelden finally raised his head from the alluring softness of the pillow. Such luxuries had been lost on him for the bulk of his life, but even now that they were common place, he found himself grateful for the little things that most nobles probably took for granted.

He had been dreaming of Leliana, but he could barely recall the dream now, all that remained was a hazy image of the bard's face, looking at him in accusation. That much he unfortunately could remember and he winced, even now that reality was settling in. Alistair wouldn't blame her, if she had done that in person, he deserved it for his actions with Gwyneth the previous night.

Not only was guilt there, as he realized his nudity beneath the bed sheets, but disquiet. Alistair had always been gentle with Leliana, following her lead, and their spiking passion the only thing that made him less than so, and that was when it peaked. With Gwyneth he was almost brutal, he bit and yanked on her, growling in his lust in a way that passion alone had never caused. It felt like he might have been punishing her, but for what he didn't know, and she hadn't exactly been complaining. Her whining and wailing had been of an entirely different sort.

"Ah, and at last he rises. I was almost worried I'd have to wake you myself." The humming stopped, making it clear who had been doing it. Gwyneth had moved a chair out onto the balcony, enjoying some light reading, and shut the book in her lap as she looked into the room. "Good morning, Alistair." There was a smile there, tentative and unsure, but not spiteful or angry, and that was something.

There was a brief thrill up the king's spine from the way she had said his name, and he didn't even know if the tone was intentional. This was a strange and uncomfortable new territory he found himself in. He gathered the sheet to bring it around his waist, getting up from the wide bed. One hand went to the back of his neck, rubbing it nervously. "Umm, good morning . . . Gwyneth." He tried to return her smile, but his nerves were just shy of shot and the blonde figured it hadn't turned out well.

Little time was wasted as Alistair made for the flimsy sanctuary that the dressing screen provided, his voice sounding raspy as he spoke from behind it. "You usually aren't still here in the mornings, did you . . . did you get dressed that early?" '_Simple conversation, that should work just fine.' _He went about getting ready for the morning, hoping he could _keep_ the day so simple, but doubting it.

"Not especially so, no. I got dressed in _here_."

"You . . . what?" Alistair poked his head around the edge of the screen, eyeing the redhead from where she had perched herself against one of the fancy balcony doors, watching him. "But, then your maid servant was in here, while I was in bed and _undressed_?"

"Oh, don't trouble yourself, we were behind the screen and she didn't see anything untoward, and it was my Lady in Waiting actually. I've kept after her to find some suitable maid servants, so she needn't do _everything_, but it seems that the hiring pool is rather small, so soon after we barely avoided the destruction of Ferelden. Funny bit of business that, isn't it?" One brow went up, a playful smirk beneath it.

The king almost breathed easier to see such a familiar expression on his wife's face. He shook his head at the woman, however, before ducking back behind the screen. "Why did you stay in here all morning anyway?"

"I didn't want to leave you, after last night."

That admission shocked the blonde and he stopped what he was doing, hands clenched still at the ties to his tunic. "Why?"

Gwyneth laughed, making sure she took the time to give the sound that extra bit of tinkling quality to keep it light. "Should that be so surprising? I think it is safe to say that there should be _some_ comfort between us after that, don't you? It would hardly do to behave like we are strangers, and I _am_ the queen, my place is here at any rate and I shouldn't neglect my duty so." She didn't pause and wait for him to answer, her voice changing to something far from friendly, though the venom was not aimed at the king. "Besides which, considering that the guards heard our antics, I'd rather avoid being giggled and guffawed at. Not that it matters much, I shall have them both brought to the Royal Hall where they will be summarily stripped of their positions and perhaps publicly flogged, I haven't decided yet." She walked towards the screen, her heels clacking on the floor, giving her away. "I suppose it depends on whether or not they are repentant, but talking about their sovereigns with such a disregard and disrespect for rank and decency cannot be allowed nor indulged. I'm sure you agree."

Alistair sighed, taking everything in and wishing that just once there would be a day where there wouldn't be any problems. "Yes, I suppose, but _flogged_? What were they saying exactly, and how do you know if you never left the room?"

Gwyneth stepped up behind Alistair to take his light doublet in her own hands, nodding her head for him to turn around, which she was pleased to find that he did without much fuss. "Siofra told me they had her half believing I had _laryngitis_, can you believe that? As if they are quiet when they take their own wives to bed? I doubt that very much, more as like that _they_ sound like rutting hogs, and that would only be if they did it well. If not, then there wouldn't be any noise at all would there? Apart from rickety bed springs, since I doubt they spend their ill-earned coin on worthwhile household items."

The king was wide eyed at how blatant the queen was, taking everything in stride. It was a far cry from her behavior after their unorthodox consummation at Ostagar. "Gwyn!" She only snickered at that, back to taking some pleasure in insulting others, and Alistair almost wanted to be angry at her for that kind of attitude, but he found a smile tugging at his lips instead. "So . . . You think I did it well?"

"I don't have laryngitis, but my throat _is _sore and I've a rather large bruise on my neck again. However . . ." She knotted the ties of the doublet at his shoulder, where they connected to some elaborate arm pieces, a new type of fashion that she thought looked fairly striking on her husband. "I was . . . well pleased and I think you were too." Watching him through her lashes, she saw that smile widen before he managed to sort himself out.

"_Well_ pleased?"

"Mmm, hmm, and once you are all dressed we can go enjoy some nice breakfast. I'm told the first of the summer strawberries are ready. So, all in all, not a _horrible_ start to the day."

Alistair should have still felt guilty, but somehow knowing that Gwyneth had enjoyed their exertions made his back straighten, and his chest swell with more than minute masculine pride. He watched her as she looked intently at her mission, fingers working nimbly to do up all his ties. "You look nice in green." _A compliment for a compliment_. "Not that you don't look nice in other colors, I think you look nice in everything, maybe even nothing . . . Wait, no, that's not . . . What was I trying to say?"

"That I look nice." Gwyneth smirked, grabbing for his belt to buckle it so it sat against his hips, loose enough to be stylish yet still functional.

"Right. Yes, that. This is just . . . this is new." He sighed as she stepped back to admire her handiwork, a light flush on his neck to realize he was being appreciated.

"Then we shouldn't try to complicate it. This is hardly one of those nonsensical happily ever after stories, but maybe we can find some _pleasure_ in it." She winked, enjoying the reaction she had garnered so far, and grateful that he didn't seem overly suspicious. "So, for now, all that needs to matter is that we worked out some stress last night, and we are both hungry this morning and headed off to enjoy some fine food, before we set out for another day in the life of a royal couple." Gwyneth paused, a brow raised at him as she went to take his arm. "You _are_ hungry aren't you?"

"Starving." Alistair tried to smile, and think of everything in the simple steps Gwyneth had laid out, which seemed incredibly difficult to do, but with a full roster of activity for the day, maybe she was right. _He shouldn't complicate matters by over thinking them_.

"Yes, me too. Come then, and if even one more guard tries to be sly, or dares to look at us funny, it'll be a good flogging for him as well."

"You know something, Gwyn? Sometimes you make me nervous."

"Only _sometimes_ is it?"

Her playful grin was something he was accustomed to, but hadn't seen much of lately. What he couldn't recall was it affecting him before, but he couldn't deny that it did now, and that perhaps was the most worrisome of all. Gwyneth always was thinking, her mind constantly at work, and Alistair wasn't certain at all that she could be trusted. Someone like her could easily have an agenda in all this, last night's encounter and this morning's more chipper mood. However, the king didn't find her to be _too_ different, and there was an obvious nervousness in her eyes; it was possible that she was genuine. With a deep breath, he went out the door and walked down the royal hall with his wife, the first time since their marriage that they had gone to breakfast _together_. Alistair wasn't sure if it would be the last, but there was something pleasant about it, the way that servants watched them with a bit of surprise. They too noticed that Queen Gwyneth and King Alistair went to breakfast separately before.

All that the queen did, was hold her head high, the dark green and gold of her gown showing the colors of Highever and her own lineage. While the way she had curled her arm around the king's, and his light blue garb, said that she was entirely comfortable to now be a part of _his_ lineage. Whether she felt honestly so, he couldn't say, but it looked good at least.


	24. Chapter 24: Day in the Life

**Disclaimer:** _"Dragon Age: Origins" and all its expansions and additional content is the property of Bioware and EA Games. Large portions of written content within the game, as well as Dragon's Age: The Stolen Throne, and Dragon's Age: Calling, are the creation of David Gaider. Original scenarios and characters are used under the creative license of the writer, ItalianEmpress1985. No profit is being made and the following story is for entertainment purposes only_

**Words From The Author:** _Yay! Gerod! So I've very much been looking forward to introducing this Orlesian. In 'Awakenings' if you play as an original character without importing your character from 'Origins' they are suppose to be from Orlais, but then they still had Fereldish (read: English) accents instead of Orlesian (read: French) accents, but as much as I enjoy the game, I think that probably doesn't fit. So Gerod very much has an Orlesian accent. So thusly, it is Ser 'Zher-ode, Char-on' French translation guide don't fail me now. ;)_

_There is a section where Gerod refers to the queen as de'Highever, which is an Orlesian (French) signifier meaning 'of Highever', and a way of referring to nobility by relation to their place of birth instead of family. It just struck me as something the Orlesians might do on occasion._

_The letter in here only has bits of French in it for effect, though you can imagine the whole thing being in French if you like, it probably would be or Orlesian in this universe, but I wanted to make sure it could be read without repeating the letter in English or having paragraphs of translations. Though of course there are 'some'._

_Translations are as follows . . ._

_*Commandant = Commander_

_*La Veille = The Vigil_

_*La Couronne = The Crown_

_*Le Sénéchal, Maître Varel = The Seneschal, Master Varel_

_*la Brûlure = the Blight _

_*misérables! = wretched!_

_*Ce pauvre construction qu'utilisent ces Fereldans, non? = Such poor construction these Fereldans use, no?_

_*Je ne sais pas qui, je m'excuse de dire = I do not know who, I apologize to say_

_*Roi = King_

_*Reine = Queen_

_*Roguefoncé = Darkspawn_

_*Assez étrange = Quite strange_

_*le Premier Directeur = the First Warden_

_*problèmes politiques = political problems_

_*Tout d'abord au Commandant = First to the Commander_

_In this chapter you will also be introduced to m!Tabris, using the game name of Darrian, the city elf origin for the Warden, except here, he is not a Warden, obviously. But I certainly wanted to include him, and it didn't seem too much of a stretch. Though I would say with Gerod and Darrian this chapter is OC heavy, so it will have a different feel from other chapters where there was more focus on Gwyneth/Alistair point of view, but I think it works pretty well and makes the story feel a bit less insular._

_Is there a running theme with 'patience' Why yes, I think there is. :p _

_And also, lest I forget, HAPPY HALLOWEEN EVERYONE! (In my best Vincent Price impersonation, which would probably be creepy and weird since I'm a woman, but here goes.) "Don't go outside tonight, or you might be in for a fright! Muahahahaha!"_

_Thank you for stopping in. Watch out for low flying dragons!_

* * *

_**Chapter Twenty Four:**_

_**Day in the Life**_

* * *

**G**erod Caron, former noble knight of the Imperial Court, and current Warden Commander, stared out at the port town of Jader, a pair of strikingly blue and inspecting eyes narrowing on the scene spread out before him. Just past the boundaries that separated Orlais from Ferelden, the tall Frostback mountains crept up the backside of the town, the thin but well traveled road that led into Ferelden proper, creating a line between the lower hills and the rickety walls of the port. At the southern shore of the Waking Sea, the long boats and fishing trawls bobbed in the waves as they built into white capped crests of inky water, the sky above them darkening with clouds likely thick with rain. Commoners and the few minor nobles that Jader could claim, scurried about, the damp and thick air making them hurry more than they might have otherwise.

In the northwest of Ferelden, the country had not been hit as hard as the rest of it, but the marks of the Blight could still be seen, in the weariness of the people and the damage that was being repaired. Buildings that had been burned to kill the black fungus that the darkspawn spread in their wake, were like skeletons down below Gerod's eyes, husks that left little idea of what they had once looked like.

He sighed, and pressed back on the stone sill of the window, the coming rain beginning to make it feel damp, and soon it would be too slick to be comfortable. The town's only inn had been nearly full when the Wardens had arrived and Ser Caron was only lucky that he'd managed to keep the third floor room. Still, it was hardly the lap of luxury; there had never been a glass-less window in _any_ of the lodgings in Orlais, further proof to Gerod that he was far from home.

His bad leg was bothering the man from the dampness, feeling like it was seeping into the bones of his right shin, where it never truly healed completely. A thick stave, carved with the old runes of the Tevinter Imperium, was held in one hand as Ser Caron leaned on it heavily, grimacing at the way it felt as if his knee was twisting above the injury he'd sustained with every step. There was no magic left in the stave, the runes providing only good luck, or so he had been told, but still he wished for a simple cane. Though saying he _wished_ for it, may have been going too far. It clunked against the washed out floorboards of the room he had been afforded, though scuffed as it was there was hardly a worry of ruining someone's fine wood flooring.

Despite its old and creaky state, the bed was comfortable, the pale orange light thrown across the patchwork quilt from a candle Gerod had lit, with the darkness of the storm approaching. He took a seat, another grimace from the pain in his leg, and a silent curse sent to the hurlock that had gotten in a lucky shot, nearly crippling the twenty-eight year old Warden. If the axe had been sharper, if it had taken the leg off, or hit it just a little higher and crushed the knee-cap, Gerod wouldn't be making it to Amaranthine in the next month, let alone the week that he had to wait now, on top of the one that had already passed.

The injury had kept him behind as the rest of his Wardens had gone on ahead to Amaranthine, and Gerod still cursed his invalid state. He who had been knighted by the Empress Celene herself, the fifth blue-blood born son of the prestigious Caron family, who had lost his noble standing for his own foolishness, and now had likely lost the respect of those men that he had been given command over, due to his prideful carelessness in battle. The Orlesian was grateful that The Crown of Ferelden had accepted his request for the position, but if he could not meet them there, _would they not question that decision? Would _she_ question the decision? _It didn't matter, because he would _make _them see that he was the right man. He would overcome this as he had overcome his own failings in the past, to be a man of greatness, a Warden of incalculable worth, the talents and traits that had inspired the Orlesian Commander to push Gerod ever forward in the ranks. Gerod vowed that he wouldn't disappoint Commander Le Mercier, nor would he disappoint _himself_.

He brushed his shoulder length black hair away from his chin, feeling too wearied to bother tying it back as was his custom. Once that hair had been groomed and perfected, just as his garb had been, to impress the ladies at court, once he had a face that was the image of good looks and fine breeding, an Orlesian nobleman to his very core. Now, his face was scarred with his failings. The swipe of a saber five years ago had made an ugly gash down the left of it, missing his eye, but making his cheek a ghastly line that pulled the left side of his mouth down into a perpetual frown, where the scar ended at his chin. A testament to another life, where he had lost not only a woman to another man, but his pride in his nobility. He had thrown himself into the Grey Wardens, wishing for his own destruction, melodramatic, his sister Camille would have said, but instead he'd found purpose. Though Gerod could never forget what had brought him there, the tall man was reminded every time he glanced in a mirror.

For his most recent injury, however, he had sent his men ahead while he was forced into staying behind for lack of a decent healer. It was something Gerod knew he should have thought of before leaving Montsimmard , but Lake Celestine in Orlais did not boast a mage's tower as Lake Calenhad of Ferelden did, and even fewer available healers that would _want_ to join the Wardens. Gerod didn't care if he had to conscript warriors and rogues to the cause, but he'd always been fairly certain that a _mage_ forced into the life might take enough exception to create one hell of a ruckus, not the least of which might result in very poor healing.

With little to bide his time, but the depressing nature and direction of his thoughts, he rolled out a well-viewed parchment, the portrait painted upon it faded from the frequency of the viewing.

There were many portraits made of the last Grey Wardens of Ferelden, the heroes who defeated the Blight, and plenty of them were what a person might expect. Burning eyes, ten feet tall, flames bursting from their blades and shields and other matters of fairytales and nonsense. The one held in Gerod's hands was more simple, the lines of the woman's face normal and clean. Her hair held in one dark red braid over her shoulder, the modest embroidered tunic covering the upper curves of her chest as she stared at the viewer, as if wanting to see them.

She had not been what he expected, not from the first moment he had laid eyes on her likeness. If the portrait held true, she was a rarity, a woman that was without the equine features said to be possessed by all Ferelden women. Gwyneth de'Highever stared at him with eyes silver against the cream paint that made her face. She saw Gerod Caron, past his disfiguring scar and his failings, as if his former self was there to find, embellished with only the best features that he had accumulated in his time with the Wardens; those sharp irises seeing inside him, where his heart pounded at the thought of her. It was boyish and beyond him, but the Warden Commander could not deny the thrill that ran along his skin, the way his stomach clenched in a way that was not entirely unpleasant, but he tried to remind himself of his own foolery and that she was not merely a woman already married, but the queen consort of the King of Ferelden. Still, that both she and the king had survived their encounter with an archdemon only inflamed his desire to meet the queen, the flames of that desire fuelled by tall tales and rumors, some of which Gerod knew had to be false, but also those that made _just enough _sense to be tantalizing.

With a faraway smile, he traced a sword-calloused finger along her painted jaw, nearly dropping the parchment when a knock came at the door, the meek voice of the inn keep's daughter barely making it through the wood.

"Begging your pardon, ser, but I've a letter here for you." Her brogue was made from an odd mixture of rural Orlesian and Fereldish, the 'border tongue' they called it.

Gerod nodded, cracking the door open to take it, feeling that old anger flare up at the way the girl avoided looking at his scarred face. Surely she had seen worse, most people had, living in such a hole, and certainly the girl had been around Fereldan men that may have had better faces but possessed far worse manners than Gerod's own Orlesian noble upbringing had created. Still, the Warden Commander owned a mirror, the reflection there not so pleasant to look at anymore.

With a gruff and heavily accented 'thank you' he found his solitude again, walking to close the shutters over the open window, the wind already rattling against them. He hated to think what the room would be like in the _winter_. The aching man collapsed back onto the bed, opening the wax seal that was from his First, a careful warrior who Gerod had trusted for over three years.

_Commandant Caron,_

_We have arrived in Amaranthine, stationed outside the city at an outpost fortress known as La Veille. La Couronne has put a local man in control here, Le Sénéchal, Maître Varel. La Veille, a commoner name, it would seem, is in need of repair, the construction here is misérables! Arl Rendon Howe, now deceased, did not take care of this place or his estates in the city for the duration of la Brûlure, or so I have been told. From the look of things, I can believe it. Ce pauvre construction qu'utilisent ces Fereldans, non?_

_Roi Alistair should be arriving in time for your own arrival, Commandant. There was a letter waiting for us here, and it seems also that La Couronne is going to send someone to meet you along the road. Je ne sais pas qui, je m'excuse de dire. Reine Gwyneth will also be here, which is interesting to say the least, but perhaps now we can get some answers for le Premier Directeur. Of course we must be careful, as you said, to avoid problèmes politiques. I understand that our situation is precarious._

_We encountered several bands of Roguefoncé, although they appeared scattered and almost acted as if avoiding our presence, which I have not seen before. Assez étrange, I think you would agree, Commandant. Beyond that, I am coordinating tactics with the men here, we should be ready for any of the smaller hordes that may come, though I urge you to take caution on the road._

_We look forward to your arrival, Commandant Caron, and await it patiently. You will not be disappointed in us, I swear it._

_- Maître Matthieu Desmarais, Tout d'abord au Commandant._

_So, he was not to be alone on the trip to Amaranthine_. Gerod Caron closed his blue eyes as the first of the rain drops began to patter outside. Patience was a virtue, he had often been told, his fine father had frequently offered that amongst the man's many other platitudes. At the memory, a smirk pulled up the good side of the Commander's mouth. He had always lacked that virtue, and had attempted to make up for it with others, but for now, it was something he couldn't help but try to enforce within himself.

* * *

"Where _are_ they, and where is Lady Siofra?"

"Her Majesty should exude _patience_, don't you think so My King?"

"Oh stuff it, Eamon!" Gwyneth hissed low in her throat, ill of the mood for niceties just then. There would be enough of that when her guests _finally_ arrived. Her day was filled and she could not stand to have her audience with the elves delayed, and furthermore, that Siofra was not present was of a distinct worry. Gwyneth had been depending on the elfess' presence to smooth relations between herself and the city elves that she was to take ear with that late morning.

At the displeased slant to Alistair's mouth, she straightened in her throne, rubbing her forehead for affect. "I . . . apologize, it is simply that I haven't time to fit everything in, if there are those that cannot be expected to attend on a very _basic_ schedule. I am certain we are all in agreement over that." A tiny smile was sent the king's way, a brief nod to Eamon, as she made to check if her crown was still straight. The strange bond formed between herself and her husband over the previous evening could work in her favor, and it was too early to test it.

"Majesty! Oh, please excuse me, ser!" A petite elfess who was most certainly not the Lady in Waiting, from her dark hair and dark eyes, passed by a royal guard posted at one of the archways leading out of the throne room. She was gripping her simple blue dress in one hand, trying to keep her hair in place with the other. It looked like too fine a getup for a simple palace servant, though it seemed obvious from her lack of finesse that she wasn't much higher than that. "Ah, Majesty . . ." Out of breath, the brunette elfess paused once she reached the sovereigns.

Two guards moved to get in the woman's way, spurred from their surprise, even if there would seem little to fear from such a tiny elfess. She had the audacity to glower at them anyway, clearly exasperated.

"Lady Siofra sent me." The brunette got out in a short gasp.

The queen waved the guards away, nodding her assent, and waited for the elfess to speak further with one dark red brow lifted. "Yes?"

"She has taken ill and cannot attend you at this time." It was a practiced line, but to the young woman's credit, she recited it without pause or preamble.

"Yet she seemed perfectly fine this morning." A barely disguised irritation threaded its way through Gwyneth's tone, but she gritted her teeth to keep the threatening frown from her face.

"I can't say what was the matter, Lady Siofra seemed unclear about it herself. She apologizes and sent me in her stead."

"_Who_ are you _exactly_?" This query came from the king, as the steward watched with far less curiosity, the man's gaze straying to the double doors that opened to the Royal Hall.

She curtsied, eyes moving to King Alistair before they were back on Queen Gwyneth. "Miss Lyrel Adriels, from the household of the royal seamstress, Mistress Anne Dalens, Your Highnesses."

"A _seamstress_?" That much caught the steward's attention, as he raised iron gray brows above stormy eyes. "Really, Majesty, if you would have let one of the higher ranking _human_ women . . ." The title stressed mostly to preserve the sense of decorum since they were in the public eye, as it were.

Gwyneth put her palm out to cut Eamon off, nodding shortly at the petite and brave elfess before her. "No, no, I'm set with this and a seamstress must suffice, with so few options in the eleventh hour." A small and placating smile was on the redhead's face. "Do you know of the conditions in the alienage, Miss Adriels?"

"Yeah, sure , I mean . . . _yes_, Your Majesty, I do. I lived there until I was sixteen. I've been in the service of the Royal Palace for just shy of five seasons now." Not sure if that was sufficient, the young woman continued. "Lady Siofra selected me herself, she said she didn't want to send just _anyone. _I'm well read, and I can write _mostly_ well, though sometimes . . ."

"That's quite enough." Gwyneth halted her speech, pursing a manicured fingernail against her lips, in thought. "You _must_ understand that you cannot speak out of turn, you are to serve only as a representative of your race. We must make our valued elven brothers and sisters feel as if they are such, that is your duty. Speak when something is asked of you, and take care with your manners. If there is something you don't know, I won't have the appropriate opportunity to coach you, so you _must_ be able to cover for those moments. Something along the lines of 'I'm afraid I'm not versed in those matters.'" She smiled, as the elfess nodded and took it all in. "Well, I'm sure you can come up with _something_."

"Oh yes, Majesty, I won't fail you." The grin on the young woman's face was wide as she went to stand on the dais, taking a spot beside the queen's throne, as she was motioned to do. Lyrel stopped to fix her hair, having come undone in a few places from her quick jaunt.

"Gwyn, are you sure this is a good idea?" Alistair leaned across the small space separating their two thrones.

She patted his hand shortly, before turning to face the open throne room before her. "It will simply _have_ to do, but I'm sure it'll be fine." Whether things would be fine for Siofra when Gwyneth found her later, was an altogether different story.

"Your Majesties! The heralds have announced that your guests have arrived!" A loud royal page announced into the echoing length of the room.

"Well, it's about bloody time." Eamon seethed beneath his breath. For that rare occasion, Gwyneth agreed with him without reservation.

* * *

Darrian Tabris was a city elf of little patience and even less of a desire to suffer fools. He would have refused to attend the royal summons if his father, now elder, Cyrion, had not threatened to drag him by his ears.

Originally only Elder Tabris had been asked to come, but it seemed the queen had a vested interest in that family, and somehow seemed to recall their names, or more likely someone else recalled them _to_ her. Subsequently, they were all _invited_. _'Oh frabjerous joyous day!'_ The cynic inside the elf's mind sneered at the prospect, and mostly at his father and idiot cousin Soris, who had a lack of sense enough to feel _honored_. Honored for being dragged here under the suspicious eyes of the royal guards and expected to dress up and curtsey like show monkeys from Seheron. Which was a possibility, since there was a rumor going around the alienage that their newest human sovereigns had been in the company of one of the giants that hailed from that land, during the darkspawn invasion.

That alone had been hideous enough a catastrophe to pull the elves from their unrest with the humans, but Darrian would never forget the less publicized atrocities committed by the shems that lorded over them. His mother was dead because of them, he had nearly been killed, Soris had been imprisoned for over five months, his other cousin, Shianni, had almost been raped to death. Nesiara, a beautiful elfess that would have been Darrian's bride, was so distraught from her own ordeals that she left him before they even had a chance. The former elder, Valendrian had been taken by Tevinter slavers claiming to be healers, and his father had almost suffered the same fate, and all because of humans, and human royalty who had failed to act. Oh they would offer sympathy perhaps, if the city elves were lucky, or give a sad and false shake of the head, but no action would be taken.

"Now, son, you can't speak out of turn here, these people, the king and queen, they're very important." Cyrion cautioned in a low breath, the steely haired elder had the same grayish green eyes of his son, but while a lifetime of oppression had taught Cyrion an uncomfortable patience, such that made him grateful for the rare opportunity to be heard by human royalty, _Darrian's_ eyes held an angry passion that would not be so placated. Once, long ago, the elder's late wife, Adaia, had a very similar passionate embrace of life, of always wanting something better, something more. It would seem she had passed both her best traits and her intemperate nature on to her only child.

"Why? Because they strong armed themselves into their positions?" The words were nearly spit from Darrian's full mouth.

"Cousin, they helped us, helped rally our people together so we could defend the alienage when the darkspawn came. The queen herself let me out of the cell that scum Vaughn had me in." The redheaded Soris looked across the blonde's shoulders, to find that his Uncle Cyrion shared his thoughts, but they weren't making much impact on stubborn Darrian. "I know the humans have done _terrible _things, but maybe . . . maybe the king and queen are different. They called us here after all."

"So the beautiful trophy the king purchased to hang off his arm has enough brains to open a cell door, and they both managed to find some amusement at having us ordered here, so they can _pretend_ to listen to our concerns. For that, both of you are willing to forget the years of oppression from the shems that came before them, people they still work with?" The blonde elf glared, brushing a lock of honeyed gold away from his forehead so the effect of his searing gaze would be stronger. "You think they'll take us _seriously_?" He plucked at the finely woven cotton tunic he wore, similar to those donned by his cousin and his father. "They sent us these ridiculous clothes so we wouldn't _embarrass them_, do you really, _honestly_ believe, that they are going to listen to our complaints, our concerns, and do a _damn thing_ about them? Because _I_ sure as Hell don't!"

"Keep your voice down!" Cyrion's own voice betrayed a hint of his exasperated anger. He understood all to well what his son was saying, but this was an opportunity, a small step in the right direction; but nothing could be said to convince Darrian. "Do you think _you're_ the only one in the _whol_e alienage that has suffered loss and trauma?" The elder elf straightened his thin shoulders. "You certainly aren't. Soris and Shianni both can find some benefit in this, even after all they've been through, _they_ understand how important it is to do our part to try and change the way things are. This is about more than just you."

Darrian sent another poisonous glare at Soris, who only looked at the tiled floor as they walked. Neither of them said anything, Cyrion's change of tone more than enough to keep the two cousins quiet.

Life in the alienage was as worse as ever, the damage left behind by the darkspawn that nearly destroyed the whole city had barely even been touched. The Crown had managed to secure funds for the rebuilding of the market district, but somehow there had been none to spare for the elves.

Nothing had changed, nothing _would_ change, and as Darrian walked in a slump beside his father, he wanted to shout at them so they would understand. _This was useless_, but instead he kept walking, eyes barely looking at the decor inside the palace, for a worry that it would incense him to the point that he could no longer keep his mouth shut. The blonde elf cared nothing for embarrassing the shems that allowed the deplorable conditions in the alienage to continue, but more for the sake of not embarrassing his family.

Two guards, dressed in armor that looked like it was made more to impress than for any functionality, opened a pair of heavy and tall double doors, the late morning sunlight catching on the bronze embellishments on the thick wood. They came open with a grumble, and Darrian could sympathize. He didn't want to be there anymore than most of the humans here didn't want him there anyway.

Above them were the imposing balconies where the nobles would be for one of their famed Landsmeets. The blond elf had certainly never seen one, but he could well imagine the pomp and self importance involved in such a meeting. They were empty now, the galleries bare of persons but not decoration. Long swags of rich purple draped along the front, no shortage of potted plants pressed against the carved wooden columns of the railings.

There was nothing like this owned by any elf, and there wouldn't be in Darrian's lifetime.

"Announcing Elder Cyrion Tabris, Master Soris Tabris and Master Darrian Tabris!" The page's voice was loud and rang out into the throne room like a horn, some surprise evident on the faces of the elves who didn't expect their elder's title to matter in that palace.

Upon the dais sat the King and Queen of Ferelden, both dressed resplendently in fine blue weave and leather gilding, and green silk and gold lace, respectively. A young elfess in light blue was beside the queen and an older man in vestments that matched the king on was on the right, probably the Steward of the Crown. Though Darrian had never met him, the appearance fit the few descriptions he'd heard. As did the sovereigns themselves, dressed to impress as they were.

Beside Darrian, his cousin bowed his head shyly before all three of them were made to bow entirely.

"Your Majesties, we thank you for the opportunity to let our voices be heard, and though it would've been nice to have more of our people here, I understand why you only wanted a few of us. I'm sorry my niece, Shianni, couldn't attend. She suffered some injuries when the darkspawn stormed the alienage." Cyrion met the eyes of the king, not feeling _entirely_ comfortable with him, but King Alistair seemed a little warmer than his queen. The woman's eyes were a little too sharp and searching.

"Our best wishes are with your niece on her recovery. It was a valiant effort from _all_ of your people, Elder Tabris and you are to be congratulated." The king smiled broadly, the steward nodding his head in kind. "But I do know that you've had a hard time recovering. I fear it is the same everywhere in Ferelden, but hopefully we can find some solutions . . . together."

The queen smiled, her gaze taking in the three elves before her, looking sidewise to Miss Adriels. "Yes, we have many elven staff here at the palace, and though we haven't been able to tour your part of the city as much as we should like, the king and I hear much of your situation from your own people." She lightly cleared her throat, and Lyrel had the good sense not to look shocked into speaking.

"Ah, yes, it's as Her Majesty says. She and King Alistair are very accepting with our concerns, and I know personally that I'm happy this meeting was called today." The petite elfess offered a careful but sweet smile, earning one from the elder and his nephew. From the elder's son however, there was nothing.

"As are we all." The steward added, straightening the neck of his light cotehardie.

"My queen has the right of it, we haven't visited the alienage as we should have, and for that we apologize, but with so much to do, I'm afraid some things get . . . lost in the shuffle." Alistair tried to recall which former companion he'd picked that last bit up from, and just barely wrestled himself away from a frown when he realized it was the less than appropriate Oghren. Though, maybe even someone like the drunken dwarf came up with a few gems now and again.

Darrian felt his nostrils widen but said nothing, the atmosphere in the room already feeling awkward and they'd hardly spoken of anything important at all. _'Lost in the shuffle indeed. Pfft!'_

"I can understand that, Your Majesty, but I need to come right out and say this." Cyrion cleared his throat and braved that first difficult step.

"By all means." Alistair waved his hand out in encouragement.

"As the elder of my people, it's my responsibility to see to the well being of the elves here in the Denerim alienage the best I can, but my job isn't made any easier by the horrible conditions there. Most of the buildings are hardly in a state to live in, and none of us can afford newer materials. We're going into the summer months now, but when autumn gets here, we'll freeze and sicken if we can't repair or replace our homes. Already some of my people have gotten sick from the contamination left behind by the darkspawn, but our requests to the chantry for healers hasn't garnered a response, and without permits, which most of us don't have, we can't go to the market district and the chantry to ask for help in person." Cyrion hung his head somberly, affected greatly by his people's suffering, his friends, his neighbors and his family.

"Her Majesty is visiting the chantry this afternoon, that shall be remedied this very day, and if you _still_ don't have your healers, I want you to send me a messenger immediately and I shall personally take the matter in hand, though I have faith in the queen." The king paused to glance at his wife, as she offered a fine public relations smile and a nod. Alistair cleared his throat. "As to the rebuilding process, I have a plan in order for your materials. Though I wasn't aware it was so dire, and I'll be sure to see what I can do to have some supplies delivered sooner, though I'm afraid you'll have to come up with your own manpower for a time. We're utterly spent in that department, working to contain darkspawn that are still roaming parts of the kingdom, I'm sure you've at least heard the rumors, and the safety of _all_ my people is of utmost importance. However, I will certainly see what can be done to rally some hands amongst the independent laborers in the city, in return for boons from The Crown."

Soris almost groaned, pretty certain that no matter King Alistair's good intentions, that very few laborers that _weren't_ elven would want to assist those that _were_, especially when they had their own homes and business to attend to as well.

"Your assistance is . . . very valued." The watery smile on Cyrion's lips was unsure, but hopeful. "I only wish that was our only hardship." When the king motioned once again for him to continue, he did so. "Grain _used_ to be delivered at the port that was granted to us by your brother, King Cailan, on our side of the Drakan River, but there's nothing coming in. In addition, we have almost no access to clean water, the river water is filthy, and with so few of us possessing stoves large enough to boil it in large enough quantities, and bonfires outlawed in the alienage that we might use instead."

"With good reason, Master Tabris, fire like that could prove very dangerous in areas of the city where the buildings are composed almost entirely of wood and built practically on top of each other." Eamon added.

"And that's his fault, is it shem?" Darrian snarled, his cousin's efforts to hold him back amounting to nothing.

"I beg your pardon?" Eamon's eyes narrowed on the blonde elf.

"You people make me sick!"

"Son, that's enough." Cyrion put a hand on the young man's shoulder, but Darrian shrugged it off, pointing accusingly at those seated on the dais.

"No, it's _never_ enough. You order us to come here, so you can listen to us, but we have to be dressed the way _you_ like. You offer sympathy or _congratulations _but you don't _do_ a fucking thing! Your false promises mean nothing!" He was almost spitting in his boundless anger. "Then when my father finally does speak, as he was invited to do, you'd put the blame on _him_ for daring to speak the truth? He didn't ask for all the elves to be stuck behind ten foot walls, he didn't ask for our people to be spat on and thought of as garbage by the humans that rape our women and kill or imprison any who get in their way!"

"Calm yourself or you will be removed!" Steward Eamon was motioning to the guards already.

"Stop!" The king had stood, his face intense and brown eyes nearly blackened with emotion. A firm hand was placed out as the guards made for the irate elf and they desisted, hands warily on the swords at their hips. "This is meant to be a _peaceful_ discussion."

"If Elder Tabris hadn't brought his foulmouthed son, it might have been." Eamon grumbled, but when the guards looked to him, he shook his head. The king's word would stand.

"They are welcome here, _all _of them." Gwyneth sternly reminded everyone, having finally spoken up. "But I won't abide such language here in the Royal Hall." She knew plenty of cuss words, but there was a time and place for that. Her eyes alighted on Darrian Tabris, but he wouldn't meet her gaze.

"Apologize!" Cyrion grabbed his son's arm, seething at him.

"No, that won't be necessary." The rich voice of the king carried a tone that wasn't likely to brook any argument, his decree of some surprise to his wife and the steward, but before either of them could protest, he had already walked the short distance to the irritable elf. "I can tell you've been through a lot, I recognize the anger and the loss on your face, I've known those things myself, though it wouldn't be fair to say that we are the same. I know we aren't." He put a hand out to the elf. "But I promise you, on my _life_, that things will be different."

Darrian looked at the proffered palm, but didn't take it. "How _can_ they be different? There's been a wall between elves and human for longer than either of us have been _alive_."

"Then we'll tear it down, I'm sure some of that wood could be put to good use." Gwyneth's voice interrupted whatever Alistair might have said, and he turned to her in shock.

"What?" Darrian's question could've been the king's.

"The wall separating the alienage from the rest of the city, it will be taken down." She held her head high, folding her hands demurely in her lap as if she was discussing something as simple as an afternoon tea.

"Majesty, I think in these matters, it would better suit to have the integration of the two peoples happen _gradually_." Steward Eamon cleared his throat, intoning gently but firmly.

"Good Steward, the elves have been freed from slavery for centuries and that wall has remained for centuries on its own, I think that's _gradual_ enough, don't you?" One brow went up, the snooty turn to her voice unmistakable, but as she looked to her husband, her words held and he nodded slowly. "If we are the harbingers of a new age, if the world is to change, there _must_ be actions that speak louder than any _words_. _This _is taking action."

"I think it's a sound idea." Those brown eyes had an exuberance to them as Alistair smiled at the stunned elves. "How does that suit you, Master Tabris?" The question came with that same maddening simplicity. _Let's paint the royal bedroom a dark blue, I think a new pair of shoes would be nice, how about tearing down the alienage wall?_

For the first time in a good long while, Darrian Tabris was speechless.

* * *

Once the elves had departed, Gwyneth wanted to go find Siofra and give her a piece of her mind. If she had been there as asked, the big blowout might not have happened, but there was no time to go hunting the Lady in Waiting down. There was another meeting to get to.

Eamon had been quietly furious, and the queen expected there would be some unkind thoughts rolling in his head in the council chamber. As long as he kept them to himself, she really couldn't complain. The man was welcome to his opinion, even if she staunchly disagreed with it, though she found herself in agreement with the steward more often than she'd really like.

"Well that could've gone better, Eamon seemed about ready to explode, and the elder's son? Phew!" Alistair rubbed the back of his neck, his other hand in Gwyneth's, being watched on the walk down the hall as they were. With his voice at a whisper, the excitement still couldn't be contained. "But tearing down the wall? _Brilliant_!"

"I'm glad you liked that. I am rather amazing, aren't I?" She grinned widely.

"Yes, sometimes, you _really_ are."

The confirmation from the king was unexpected and she looked up at him sharply to find him looking right back down at her, the smile there warm.

"You do know of course that there are going to be big repercussions. Eamon was right, it might have been better for the human citizens here if it was done at a gradual pace, and I would've done, but we need something _big_, something that makes a statement, something that will affect the alienage soon and profoundly so. Gradual wouldn't have accomplished that." She shook her head, left hand straying to push her ribbon adorned braid back over her shoulder, where it belonged.

"I once knew a girl that said nothing is without cost, but some things are worth a higher purchase price." Alistair grinned, knowing full well who that girl was, and Gwyneth knew too.

She laughed at the obvious reminder of her own advice. "Did you now? Strange girl, that one."

"_Brilliant_ girl."

"Yes, that too."

A group of young serving girls passed them by, likely on their way to the palace kitchens. At least two of them gave the king what they probably thought to be a secret admiring glance underneath their lashes, giggling and whispering to themselves until they caught the queen's gaze instead and made the rest of their trip in silence.

"Half the palace fancies you I think, but especially Ser Mhairi. I don't know _what_ you said to her at Ostagar, but since then, I do wonder whose name she whispers to herself in her bunk at night." Gwyneth pursed a finger against her lips as if she was honestly contemplating it.

"Gwyn!" Alistair sounded scandalized but he recovered quickly. "I doubt that _very_ much, but even if she does, she'll have to fancy me elsewhere. Now that she's on her way to meet your Ser Caron."

"He's not _my_ Ser Caron, and when did _that_ happen? You never told me!"

"I may have intercepted one of the letters sent from his First. Though he wrote in Orlesian in a few places, I still managed to sort out that _Commandant_ Caron had been injured in a fight and was stuck at Jader, and would have to make the trip to Amaranthine alone. I can't have that, he's our Warden Commander now since you accepted his _offer." _The blonde trilled, mockingly seductive.

Gwyneth batted at the hand he'd sent her way to tickle her shoulder. "Stop that, stop teasing me. There is nothing _remotely_ romantic _or_ seductive in _any_ of his letters, and if you'd sent Ser Mhairi away, you should have said something, she's the second best Knight of Denerim."

"She wanted to go, she . . . wants to be a Warden." He cautiously ventured, glad that the arm curled around his and the hand in his own didn't tighten and break the bones.

"_What_? You do realize she could _die_?"

"Of _course_ I realize that." He kept his voice low, on par with his wife's. "It's what she wanted, was I suppose to say no? I made the decision and that's that."

"Hmm."

"What? Gwyn, you have that look again."

"Nothing really, I just . . . your vocabulary with the elves, the way you speak, and this new confidence . . ." She slanted her mouth, halfway between looking bewildered and pleased.

"Eamon appreciates that I've taken to studying politics and grammar, and I know he's pleased that you've taken my nobility in hand and tried to make me more so, but, he also thinks I'm trying to act like someone I'm not." Alistair scowled, wishing it didn't bother him as much.

"Then he's wrong, because I think _this_ Alistair is the one you were meant to be all along." She smiled then, really smiled, and it felt nice not to pretend.

The king stared at her in surprise, but then his own smile came and he held his head a little higher as they finished their walk down the long hall. "Well, can't be late for a meeting _I _called, that'd just be bad protocol, so, let's get a move on young lady!" He mockingly barked the order, grinning as he did.

"Oh, yes ser, right away ser." She saluted cutely, and the smile held until she remembered another woman that had done that with _her_, golden eyes shining in the light of her private campfire, telling the tale of Flemeth. The smile faltered, and she had to look away.

That day a great change was in the air . . . but, _nothing comes without cost._


	25. Chapter 25: Setting Precedent

**Disclaimer:** _"Dragon Age: Origins" and all its expansions and additional content is the property of Bioware and EA Games. Large portions of written content within the game, as well as Dragon's Age: The Stolen Throne, and Dragon's Age: Calling, are the creation of David Gaider. Original scenarios and characters are used under the creative license of the writer, ItalianEmpress1985. No profit is being made and the following story is for entertainment purposes only_

**Words From The Author: **_I contemplated skipping the events in this chapter, but I really liked what came out of them in the end, so moving forward to the next day will have to wait until the next installment. I just hope you lords and ladies enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it. This chapter is a bit longer than the others, but I don't think I would've been comfortable taking any of the sections out._

_I put this in a previous author's note, but that was a while back, so just incase: All titles minus knights of course, which is 'ser' no matter what, but then they are also often Lord or Lady Whoseewhatsit in addition) in Ferelden have male and female versions in canon, except for 'Bann' which always jarred to me, so for this story the female version of Bann is Banness, inspired by the real world titles of Baron/Baroness._

_The game doesn't mention Alfstana having a husband, and I think there are other nobility whose spouses aren't mentioned. I don't think that's necessarily the game saying she didn't have one, but moreover not having the time to talk about every single noble in the country. The idea of not marrying and having children, especially for a woman, is a very modern concept, and Dragon Age seems to be inspired heavily by medieval and renaissance time periods, though I definitely concede that Gaider has put some modern words and phrases in there. So saying, my telling will have more married nobles than in game, though I've left Teagan out of the loop, because I think he'd probably have enough pressure to get hitched from his brother, that silly Eamon. :p_

_I'm not one-hundred percent on when exactly parasols were invented, but I've seen early designs in Tudor period movies and Renaissance faires, which aren't legit history of course, but it seemed to fit the period pieces without being jarring. Hence, the parasol makes it debut here, even if it's a cursory mention, though it IS a renaissance parasol and not the umbrella like ones you are probably used to seeing from the Victorian/Edwardian period, though the design of course is similar_

_Alistair may or may not have snuck one of his 'romance path' quotes from the game and weaved it into his political speech in this chapter, he's a ninja king like that. Kudos if you can spot it. ;)_

_Thank you for stopping in. Watch out for low flying dragons!_

* * *

_**Chapter Twenty Five:**_

_**Setting Precedent**_

* * *

_It's not enough just to be better than your contemporaries or predecessors. You must try to be better than _yourself_._

_- __William Faulkner_

* * *

**S**omeone had opened the windows in the council chamber, early afternoon air, light with the fragrance of spring escaping into the room, as if it too wanted to know what was going on inside.

_'Nothing says comfort quite like a damp room, heavy with the stale air of far too many posturing noblemen_.' The young king pressed his back into the thick chair behind him, even as his arms were folded across the table, as if he was at ease, when he hardly was at all. Inundated as both he and the queen had been, with questions about why the alienage wall was to be torn down, _did he really think it was a good idea, shouldn't the focus be more on the general economy, what was to be done about the darkspawn_, and it just went on and on. Finally Alistair had managed to grasp on to one solid topic, the whole point of the meeting, and held it in a death grip until all the gathered nobility, admittedly far less of a turnout than the king would've liked, had either gotten on board with it, or held their tongue. An impressive feat, the blonde thought, and felt personal pride keep him from becoming angry when one insistent noble managed to dredge up the darkspawn again and threaten to derail the conversation back to what he deemed a better topic.

April, the twenty second day of the month, would forever be remembered in Alistair's mind. The day of his coronation, the day he had become king and the world had shifted and changed around him. When the trained warrior had found out that politics could be a battle of skill that no templar training could help a man prepare for. One month and eight days, that was his reign, and in that time the tall blonde had learned how to wield his words, how to use subterfuge and body language as weapons, where a sturdy shield and sharp sword wouldn't assist him. Still, he found himself wanting, and what skill to that end that he had claimed, on days like this one, didn't feel like enough.

Alistair squared his shoulders, trying his damnedest to not let the irritation show on his face, the feeling itself humming beneath his skin. He listened to the other man's words, trying to find a strategy in the space between them, the battleground made of a finely crafted table.

"On matters of a configuration involving the nobility presently in Ferelden, I must say Sire, that it isn't all that safe a suggestion. Not taking into consideration the darkspawn still wandering out there. I would advise, and I'm sure my wife would agree, that until the problem is resolved with _that_, that _any_ forming of a privy council cannot be accomplished."

There were murmurs of agreement, the volume steadily climbing and soon someone would agree, and the downward slope would begin.

"How _is_ Banness Alfstana, Bann Corvus? I have not seen Her Ladyship since the last Landsmeet." Gwyneth intoned calmly, smiling as she folded her hands against the polished table, one unfurling to lay across that of the king, where his tensed fingers relaxed to curl up and lace with hers. He didn't sigh, but she could feel him unwind nonetheless. The joining of their hands was the silent confirmation between them that _she_ was trying to keep the natives from growing restless, as it was, and that _he_ understood that. With nothing of affection in the gesture, it still might've been seen as such, and if it were so, that was just a fringe benefit.

"She is well, though she still grieves for her brother, poor Irmnric, Maker rest his soul." Imnric had fallen to illness and starvation from his unjust imprisonment by the late Rendon Howe, his death arriving quickly and recently on heels curried by a terrible lyrium addiction. "I'm sure she would be here if other duties at Waking Sea did not command her attention." Corvus Hargreve was not a silent member of the nobility, which wasn't always a good thing when his outspoken nature manifested itself in unpleasant topics, but he was certainly one of the most modern banns of Ferelden. One of few men that ruled in a _truly_ joint fashion with their wife. If anyone could be swayed into accepting new and drastic changes, it should've been him, but oddly enough, it wasn't.

"Yes, we must always remember the nobility we have lost, and rebuild on the promise that their life would've presented, had circumstances been different." The queen bowed her head shortly, appearing temporarily subdued by the weight of that statement, purposely avoiding any open mention of whether she meant that those passed already had promise, or if their life should have been changed before hand to possess anything positive. Though it was likely many of the gathered nobility in that room, summoned on short notice as they were, knew which nobles the queen had approved of, and those that she hadn't.

"The privy council was first instated by Lareth, the son of Calenhad the Silver Knight, those centuries ago, as a means of making sure that the voices of his fellow blue bloods was heard. During the days when nobility was little more than the most powerful members of the united Clayne tribes, stability was important, and King Lareth knew this. We've come far since those unrefined days, but so too have we lost many things, those things that would help us achieve a greatness that has eluded this country ever since King Maric delivered us from our oppressors. Now our oppression is _self_ inflicted, because we cannot seem to move forward." The queen's eyes were fierce, but her tone remained even. "So it is the wish of The Crown that a privy council is instated once again. These little meetings can't suffice when we can't count on any particular members of the Ferelden houses, but instead a mish mash of whoever can show up, and whatever topic any of you have in mind makes its way to the fore, because no one can agree and we wind up arguing over what to do, instead of seeing it through. As it stands now, it is chaos and desperation during a time already _made_ of chaos and desperation."

"But, with the darkspawn . . ." Another voice from around the table, this one belonging to Lord Mathias Sighard of Dragon's Peak, attending on behalf of his father, who was embroiled in protecting the freeholders of his bannorn. His father spoke highly of the honor of the new sovereigns, not the least perpetuated in Bann William Sighard's mind by their rescue of Mathias' younger brother, Oswyn, delivered from the hands of the recently deceased Rendon Howe. Mathias himself, however, was not convinced. "How is it that it makes _this_ the time to do so, and not, say several months down the road?"

"Have you ever heard the phrase, Lord Sighard, 'seize the day'?" Alistair waited as the man frowned and shook his head, and the king knew then that there was a possibility he was gaining the high ground. Over the past month, what little spare time he had, was spent in the library, reading everything he could on political theory and the history of his predecessors. Gwyneth had recommended several decent volumes but even more so were those that he'd picked out himself, dusted off and immersed his mind in the richer language, the great acts of both war, peace and political ingénue. Quotes aplenty floated there in his skull, and he found, with great but subdued exultation, that he could recall many of them now, when the king needed them the most.

"Lord Gavell Fitzwarren, was a knight under the banner of King Vanedrin Theirin, my great-great uncle. He fought alongside his king, with my queen's ancestor, the famed Teyrn Ardal Cousland, and though unfortunately slain, their time spent fighting went on to inspire the nobles and freeholders of Ferelden to keep the Orlesian invaders at bay for nearly two more decades." Alistair failed to mention his great grandfather, forever remembered as Brandel 'the Defeated' and it was likely a good idea to leave that part out. Reminiscing over the king that had lacked the ability to hold the people together against an invasion, wasn't going to help him here.

Gwyneth squeezed his hand, even as she smiled at him like a good dutiful wife should, and he got the point. '_Move this along._'

Alistair smiled lightly, clearing his throat as he continued. "It was Lord Fitzwarren that knew he had to 'seize the day' and that motto drove him to success." Lord Sighard was watching him intently, even as the others did the same, but for once the young king found he wasn't nervous; a self assurance boosting him up. "To wait until the right time, that's cautious, and sometimes it _seems_ wise, but there are matters where waiting brings certain failure. You're here _now_, Lord Sighard, we're gathered here _today_, and if we wait until the perfect time . . . the time may never _be_ perfect, and then what? We stay at a stalemate forever? The queen brings up a good point, during these few meetings I've managed to arrange with you all, there is more arguing than decision making, and that can't wait for the perfect opportunity to be remedied. We need to seize the day, we need to move forward, and we need to do it now before our challenges, like the darkspawn, and whatever threat comes after them, and the one after that, batters down our desire to be greater than ourselves."

It was Steward Eamon who stood first, surprisingly after his anger of earlier. The older noble's eyes were hard, but there wasn't any defiance there. "His Majesty shows a wisdom that Calenhad the Great would be proud to share his bloodline with, _but_ we _have_ to ere on caution, throwing it all to the wind isn't going to help."

"No, no it's not. Which is why the privy council is so important. _Every_ time we fight, _every_ time someone doesn't show up to one of my meetings, that's 'throwing it to the wind' and it _can't_ keep happening." Alistair stood to his full height, a stance that made him look more impressive, especially dressed as regally as he was, and the blonde was aware of it. In a play taken from his wife's metaphorical handbook, he used his appearance to his advantage and it seemed to work, at least in drawing a more respectful silence. "I'm your _king_, some of you gave me your support during the Landsmeet, others didn't . . ." A sidelong glance to Bann Ceorlic who at least had the decency to look sheepish. "However, all of us are in this together and we need to start acting like it. Anyone can make excuses why something _can't_ be done, I called you here today to talk about what _can_ be done and how we're going to do it. I won't mince words; Ferelden is in an awful bloody mess right now, we're weakened, we're fragile and lack focus. There will never be 'the right time' for any of these decisions that some of you find to be drastic, we just need to do them and make the best out of a situation that it is pretty damned far from ideal." Dark brown eyes were over-bright with the crackle of excitement that was beneath Alistair's skin. Just as it had been with the decision to tear down the alienage wall, a promise of change was in the air, the opportunity for it so close that he could taste it, _if even one of the nobles would at least stand with him_ . . .

Gwyneth watched the collected nobility, what few had come, and saw the uncertainty on their faces, an unwillingness to be the first one to speak. She cleared her throat and took her husband's arm, standing with him.

"I'm sure all of you remember that Landsmeet, that saw us announced as your new sovereigns, and do any of you remember Arl Wulff of West Hill, who was at the Landsmeet, perhaps?" She barely resisted the catty smile at the look to Bann Ceorlic's face. Both Eldren Ceorlic and Magnus Wulff had thrown their lot in with the late Teyrn Loghain MacTir, but Arl Wulff had been swayed away from his vote, while Bann Ceorlic had not, and all of them gathered there knew how _that_ had ended. "He realized that the cause of the rightful heir to the throne was the righteous one, because Arl Wulff put his faith in the wrong man to start with and it garnered him nothing, but also he had waited, he had been cautious, and he waited _too long_. West Hill fell to the darkspawn. The man himself has no sons now and only one daughter by marriage and three very young grandchildren, all taking shelter in Nevarra because they have no home anymore. Waiting for the perfect moment to act caused the destruction of his house. I know something about that myself, losing all that you were born to, and thinking yourself near to obliteration of your own, as does my brother, the honorable Teyrn Fergus Cousland. Who, with Arl Wulff, has gone to reclaim Highever, and then they shall, _together_ reclaim West Hill, what's left of it." She sniffed, not just for effect, but there was a genuine worry for her brother that she couldn't keep out of her voice, but it seemed to be helping the king's cause, and so at least something useful came out of it.

"Do the rest of you want to keep fighting with each other, fighting against _me_, your _king_. Do you want to keep on with your lackluster audiences and an even more half-hearted effort, waiting for the _right time_ and suffer the same fate as Arl Wulff, Maker bless and keep him, or do you want to move forward and recapture our greatness before you lose everything?" Alistair was quick to pounce on the opportunity to gain ground that Gwyneth had given him, his stance going from regal to somber, hoping the weight of those thoughts would be enough to push the nobles in his favor.

Lord Sighard shifted in his seat, looking over to Bann Hargreve who sat beside him. There seemed to be a subtle understanding between the two men that proceeded rank.

With a great sigh, Bann Corvus Hargreve stood first, not entirely thrilled with the prospect, but hardly in a position where he wanted to refute it either. "The king speaks sense. We've been cautious for too long. Some of our predecessors were cautious when the Orlesians invaded us, they didn't fight back, they thought there would be an easier opportunity and a better time to reclaim Ferelden, a time where they wouldn't have to fight. I'm sure they kept thinking that up until the usurper king, Meghren the Mad, cut off their heads to decorate the fence around the palace."

A few of the noblemen winced at that, some too young to really remember those terrible days of the Orlesian occupation, but of sound enough mind to imagine what it was like.

Corvus nodded at the king. "For my children and my wife, for the fine people of my bannorn, I can't remain passive. It will be dangerous to come to the capital for a privy council, yes, I can't say I don't fear that, but it's going to be dangerous to go _anywhere_, so are we to hole ourselves up in our homes?" He shook his head, the gold cross he wore as an amulet, making a clinking noise against the metal buttons of his doublet where it swayed. "No, I can't do that. For the future of my family and my country, I must stand with King Alistair, I vote yes to the privy council. Waking Sea is with you, Majesty."

With one noble in agreement, others began to follow. Mathias Sighard stood next. "My father would agree with Bann Corvus. Though I fear what could happen until the darkspawn are taken care of, and I hold The Crown to its recent promises of action to that end." A pair of steely eyes were narrowed at the king and his queen. "So saying, I find that I too want change for our people, a method to all this madness, some sort of peace to salvage from the nightmare we've all been through. Speaking for Bann William Sighard as his eldest son, and heir apparent, I stand with King Alistair in favor of a privy council. Dragon's Peak is with you, Your Highness."

Eldren Ceorlic fidgeted before he too stood, noting the wide eyes of the queen, who clearly expected him to be the last voice in that room to speak up. "My father betrayed this country, he betrayed Queen Moira and young Prince Maric, we all know that and I can no longer pretend it isn't so. I also know that many people feel I would do the same in a heartbeat, that because of my allegiance with Loghain that I no longer care for Ferelden, but I do. My father is _dead_, Loghain is _dead_, whatever misdeeds either of those men made, they aren't _mine_." He huffed defensively, before forging ahead. "And I won't have my actions be judged in such a harsh light for an _eternity_, I refuse to let my family suffer for the past actions of those they had no control over. If by agreeing to this privy council, and in taking part, I contribute to Ferelden and can earn the trust of you, my fellows, then that is what I shall do."

He straightened his collar, looking as noble as he could muster. Eldren didn't much care for either of the sovereigns but there was little he could do about _that_. Born and raised into a bitterness and inherited mistrust had done little to improve the bann's disposition, but he at the very least was a better man than his father, and he'd prove it. "My dear Rosalind is in poor health, and we remain in Denerim for her sake, and I don't want to leave my wife anymore than I must, but this is clearly important and I _will_ take part. I stand with King Alistair on the matter of a privy council. You have the favor of the Oswin bannorn, Majesty."

Ceorlic's closing statement seemed to bring all of the table to their feet.

Alistair let his eyes open wide in astonishment as one noble agreed after the other. He had won them over, he'd done it, _he'd actually done it! _He squeezed back on Gwyneth's hand as she beamed at him for the aesthetic benefit of the gathered nobles, but while _her_ smile might have been fraudulent, the _king's_ was genuinely exultant. It might have stayed that way if not for the bitterness in Arl Eamon's eyes, kept lidded even as the steward joined the other nobility in their acceptance. _Not everyone was happy about change, it would seem._

Discussion would follow, the selection of who would be appointed to the privy council, and King Alistair found that he looked forward to every second of it. It was his idea alone, born of his own mind and _it was a success_. Gwyneth had only aided him, but with her aid, that devious mind of hers, he'd won the room. Alistair wasn't certain that _he_ would've used Arl Wulff's loss in such a way, but he couldn't deny that it seemed to be the flint spark needed to start the fire. He looked to her but her attention was elsewhere as a page silently entered the council chamber. Before Alistair could ask what was going on, he was pulled into the beginnings of the particulars, with Eamon grabbing his elbow to get his attention.

"Now, firstly, we have to send notices to the nobles that weren't here today, and we'll have to get the correspondences back before we can decided who will serve. I'm sure you agree, Majesty, so saying, we need to . . ."

Arl Guerrein's voice seemed to drone off as Alistair found his eyes straying to the corner of the room where his queen and the young page whispered, Gwyneth seeming concerned, but once again he felt his elbow tugged, the look of irritation on Eamon's face plain to see. Just like that the king was far too embroiled in his own business to pay attention to Gwyneth.

The queen however, was only focused on a single page.

"What do you mean Revered Mother Boann is to leave for Lothering within the next two hours? She knew I was to visit her this late afternoon, a notice was sent for Maker's sake! Why the hell is she going there anyway?" Gwyneth seethed under her breath, the young man holding the note in his slender hands, full of wariness as he responded.

"I can't say your Majesty, she was not specific. She suggests that you can speak with any of the sisters here at Denerim about your concerns."

"My _concerns_? They are _demands_, and I am the _Queen of Ferelden_, I won't be passed off onto the mother's _lessers_. Who does she think she is?" With a huff of irritation, the queen's gaze traveled to the council table. '_This is terrible timing_.' She pinched the bridge of her nose and rubbed it. "Alright . . . let me think . . ." The redhead held her hand in the air as if pulling the answer from it. "Call a carriage to the palace, I want to leave in the next twenty minutes, and for love of the Maker, call the guards I requested to throne room. I haven't all day to waste on punishing them." With those orders she waited for the page to leave. "Well? Come on, off with you." She waved him away.

"Yes Majesty, right away." He bowed shortly, and was gone.

'_Idiots and layabouts, the whole lot of those royal pages!'_ Irritated and feeling off balance by the disruption of her finely planned schedule, she had to collect herself before she approached the table, a forced smile on her face as she made for her king. "Darling . . ." The tone was _just_ caressing enough that the gathered nobles pretended not to listen, thinking that a private discourse might follow, and the poised smile was firmly in place, reaching for a docile appearance. "I know you are in the middle of something, but I need to speak with you for a moment." Eamon looked like he was going to protest, but she held out her hand to stop him, still focused on the tall, and puzzled, blonde. "I apologize, sweetheart, but it's very important." The saccharine look of adoration, the mask of a trained political thespian, became a humbly apologetic one as those wide silver eyes swung to look at those gathered at the table.

Alistair was almost caught out, but he'd been playing this game with Gwyneth for nearly a month, and he was beginning to learn the steps. He pet the knuckles of her hand where it was touching his arm, smiling at her. "Of course, darling. Pardon me, gentlemen. I won't be long." At their nods and murmurs he left to a more secluded corner of the room, where he could blissfully drop the act.

Having drawn him away from the table, Gwyneth watched the others that remained there warily, cautious of eavesdroppers. "Something's come up, I need to go the chantry immediately. So I'm afraid I can't stay. Those two traitorous guards couldn't be bothered to show up when summoned, either, so I'm just going to deal with them before I leave."

"When are you going?"

"In the next twenty minutes."

"Gwyn! The council meeting isn't half done, we haven't even agreed on who is going to serve for the privy council. I need you." Alistair gripped her arm through her green sleeve, trying not to look desperate.

The redhead bit her lip, all at once glad that he was taking charge more and more each day, but equally worried that her own importance was lessening. She could stay and keep herself tethered to that importance at his side, but duty called, and as always, there was nothing beyond that. Gwyneth fought a grimace, and instead shook her head calmly. "No, you don't. I did my part here, you've won them over for now. You'll be fine, and if I don't leave, the revered mother is going to take off on me. She thinks to avoid me and pass me off to the sisters, can you believe the _gall_ of that woman?" Gwyneth huffed. "At any rate, I have to leave if I'm to secure healers for the alienage before tomorrow. You know as well as I do that if we don't give those elves some results and _soon_, that we're going to have another riot on our hands. We can't afford that right now, if ever again."

The king rubbed at the back of his neck, a nervous gesture, before he realized what he was doing and stopped, looking at his hand as if it had committed some offense all on its own accord. "Gwyn . . . maybe I should go with you."

_'Does he think me incapable?' _Her eyes narrowed, resentment building beneath her lashes, but those bright irises widened again before Alistair noticed. "I'll be fine, truly. Besides, your presence is required _here_, this decision has to be finalized, you can't let them fall back on their promises of agreement, so don't give them the opportunity. Be sure that you . . ." She smirked and patted his shoulder. "_Seize the day_ and I'll be sure to do the same."

He felt like she was dictating to him, but he didn't have much choice, because she was right, he _was_ needed there. Alistair sighed. "Fine, fine, just try and be on time for our tea with Wynne, she leaves tomorrow you know."

"Yes, I know. Don't worry, I won't miss it."

* * *

_They were lucky that the queen was harried enough to have little time for proper punishment. _A private flogging had been ordered, and the two guards that thought themselves jokesters, would spend a week in the dungeon to think of how much they liked being employed and what it was worth to them. Gwyneth had intended to fire them outright, but the pool to draw new guardsmen from was a light one, and at second thought, she had decided to keep them. Though when their week was up, they were being relocated and would trade places with other guardsmen, to be sent to guard the stables. She wasn't feeling quite _that_ lenient.

If there had been more time, it would've likely been something worse, with the queen's temper lit. She was a woman that had a plan for everything and was more displeased than a normal individual when those plans went awry. The morning had seen a possible success in the plans for the alienage, but that could go either way, Gwyneth wasn't naive enough to believe it was a sure thing, and there had also been frustration in Siofra's inconvenient absence and in having to make do with a seamstress of all things. A continuing problem as she had to make haste to the chantry without her Lady in Waiting.

With the lateness of the guards to show up when they should have, that frustration only built, and going into the council chamber with the king hadn't done all that much to obliterate it. Though at least the privy council was a claimed success, if a tenuous one and the queen would have to watch Alistair in the days that followed, but she was proud of him. That much she couldn't deny, the changes in him were too obvious to one that had traveled with him for six months and had been married to him for almost the whole of the seventh month of their association. He didn't have to know she was impressed with him, but she was all the same.

Stepping into the carriage, the redhead gathered her skirts in one hand, holding a new invention from Orlais in the other. They called it a parasol, panes of boned triple layered lace that expanded from a polished wood and pearl handle, to create a canvas over the owner's head. It was Gwyneth's hope that it would prevent freckles on her skin, and help to preserve the creamy unblemished facade that was coveted by ladies of noble birth, and something that the queen wanted to make sure she would posses for some time.

She sent a glance over her shoulder, as she closed the parasol, to the elfess behind her. "Come then, Miss Adriels, we haven't time to dilly dally."

"Oh yes, of course Majesty." Lyrel Adriels smiled at the queen, and held her neck high, a barely hidden smirk of superiority sent to the maids of the palace that watched her with envy as she climbed into the carriage with the queen. If Siofra couldn't be bothered, Lyrel was more than ready to be handed every advantage she could get, _and let those snobs stick their noses up at her now!_

Gwyneth frowned at the open way the twenty one year old seamstress flaunted her temporary rise in the ranks. She would need to keep an eye on the elf, it wouldn't do at all to have her getting ideas above her station. The queen may have been angry with Siofra, but with little time to speak with her Lady in Waiting, she wasn't going to make rash decisions and replace her just yet. A level headedness from Gwyneth that was rare, and one she knew was a trait inherited from her father, that snuck in on occasion. Lately she'd been showing far more of her mother's brass and temper.

The two of them had been excellent foils for one another, something that the late Teyrna Eleanor had commented was one of the standing foundations that made her marriage with Teyrn Bryce work. _"Flower, when you are wed, you will understand how it is. If your father and I were _exactly_ alike, both of us would be bored to tears." _Eleanor Cousland's lovely smile was there with her words, fresh in her daughters mind as if she'd spoken them merely yesterday.

As the carriage jerked forward and began its trek through the city, Gwyneth rested her head against the padded cushion, eyes taking in Denerim through a slit in the tiny curtains that covered the window. In the winter, they would be filled with glass, but in the late spring, fresh air was taken advantage of. Though the queen was grateful she wasn't traveling in the carriage through the poorer parts of the city. The stench of unwashed masses and filthy streets was even worse when it settled in an enclosed space. As she rested, her thoughts ran away with her.

On days such as today, Gwyneth felt useful, she felt as if it was where she belonged, with a title that was destined to be hers, and the wherewithal to see it through. Because there were plans, and there was purpose that drove her, filling her mind with it so it wouldn't be idle. Demons found work for idle hands, and dark designs for idle minds. Those days that saw her focus as merely the queen consort, in support of her king, however, left her with far too much time to think.

From the cradle she was conditioned to what responsibilities came with her station. As a high ranking noblewoman of Ferelden it was the duty of her parents to secure a good match, and it was _her_ duty to make the most of it. Gwyneth had never resisted that prospect, finding that she liked the idea of a husband that she could bend to her wishes with her wiles, that would dote on her, and leave her to her parties and shopping while he went about his own business. _Real _destiny had other plans, beyond festivities and fine clothing, a destiny that required Gwyneth to use her mind, body and soul to exhaustion. Yet, she'd still made what most would consider a good match, except all that acceptance the redhead had cultivated inside herself wasn't enough to make her happy. In those moments where there were no tasks occupying her, though they were blissfully few and far between, she was keenly aware that the man she married would never dote on her as any of her suitors had done.

In the column of things that worked in her favor, however, Gwyneth _did_ have a way with Alistair, if she could figure out her strategy ahead of time. The young queen had a remarkable facility with reading people, and telling them just what they wanted to hear, or just the thing that hit them where it hurt, whichever path her goal might lay on. So far, Alistair had been amenable to most, if not all, of those verbal and mental traps Gwyneth had laid. She could play him as a finely tuned lute, if she was careful, but it was delicate, when he was suspicious and Gwyneth knew he was. _Of course he was, because he knew her, and she never should've allowed that to happen, but she'd needed a friend those months on the road, and there he was._ That friendship was lost, it had to be in the face of all _this_, and it hadn't been strong enough to survive the stress in any case. The queen told herself she didn't care, it didn't matter as long as she held Alistair's respect. Apart from that, if she could keep her crown, anything she did to that end was worth it, as was anything she lost.

Happiness had been replaced by purpose, and that should've been more than enough for a young woman that didn't believe in love beyond family or happy endings beyond storybooks . . . _but it wasn't_.

"We're here, Your Majesty." Lyrel's sharp voice broke Gwyneth out of her contemplations.

_Could they really have been traveling that long?_ The queen shook her head lightly, lifting a cheek warmed from the padding and got her parasol ready for when the guards would open the door. She could clearly hear her subjects in the Market District and prepared herself for their shouts, some happy, and some not, and the beggary that would come with it.

'_Please, Highness, I need money for my children! I beg you, Majesty, just some coins for my ailing father!'_

They all wanted help, and she would do what she could, but it wouldn't be enough, it never was. With a sigh, Gwyneth gathered her skirts and practiced her public relations smile before the carriage door came open. "Good day, my fine people, greetings to all of you." Her voice sounded pitch perfect, even as she cringed inside.

* * *

"As I said upon your arrival, Majesty, Revered Mother Boann is soon to leave for Lothering. Any concerns you have most certainly can be addressed by myself. I am a mother of this chantry, if not the _revered _mother, and I can hear you." The copper hair of Mother Perpetua was pulled back in a tight bun that revealed every bit of the middle aged woman's stern face.

Gwyneth wrestled herself away from a disgruntled and unrefined snort, always a nasty habit to fall back on under irritation. "You will be her successor, is that not so?" Her smile was just as tight as the other woman's hair, and her face just about as friendly, or lack thereof.

"I will take her place when the time comes, yes."

"Then I'm certain you know that a revered mother's responsibilities include taking ear with their sovereigns, as the king and queen are ordained by _the Maker himself_, who is the Great Father to _all_ of us." The queen held her folded hands against her sternum, the image of diffidence and very resolute with it. Hers was not an intent that would be easily set aside or swayed, if at all.

"Of course Your Highness, but My Queen must understand that the revered mother is most busy, there are so many things towards which her talents are required."

"Must I understand that indeed? Am I to take it that you believe me _incapable_ of the mental capacity required for that understanding?" Silver eyes narrowed on the thinner woman before her. "I mean, honestly, how could you, knowing what the punishment for such a slight might be. Knowing how _poorly_ that would reflect upon the chantry, and their lack of providing proper training for the manners necessary in your position, as their representative." She watched with self pride as the other redhead cringed at the veiled warning hidden there.

"No! No of course not, Majesty! I would never . . ."

"No, of course you wouldn't. How silly of me." The queen rolled her eyes at herself, for effect, as if in self recrimination. '_All just a misunderstanding, I'm sure, just two women being full of fluff and nonsense.'_ "So since we both have asserted that we posses understanding of our positions with one another, you certainly will obey a royal command and fetch Revered Mother Boann for me. After all, she _is_ still here, and I, your queen am waiting with much anticipation to speak with her." Gwyneth smiled again, still lacking the quality that would make it warm, nodding her head in the direction of the personal quarters of the woman in question.

Mother Perpetua went to open her mouth, a finger even held up as she was preparing some sort of excuse as to why that couldn't be done, but the queen's eyes bore holes into her. She only nodded her head, bowing shortly. "I'll be but a moment, Highness."

"Most excellent, thank you so very, _very_ much, Mother Perpetua." Gwyneth nodded her head as the woman left her, likely whispering waspish retorts under her breath or in the silence of her mind.

Afternoon sunlight bled through the panes of painted glass set high into the chantry walls, lighting on large brass chandeliers hanging from the peaked ceiling. The colored light fell across the pews, nearly empty at this hour, and touched the queen's hair, making the brownish dark red of her locks look more like crimson. She flicked her elaborate braid behind her shoulder, hands still folded in feigned patience as her eyes took in the structure. It had been damaged during the Blight, certainly, but the repairs had come along quite well.

It was the first time Gwyneth had truly considered the rebuilding plight of the elves, having seen how the alienage looked before the Blight, and it had looked like a hell hole _then_. She could imagine what it might look like _after_ the disrepair had time to set in after the city's last stand against the arch demon. Compared to the chantry, and the whole of the market district, the difference would be startling.

Another concern that drew her away from her titles of old.

There were days she could almost forget she had ever drank a vial of darkspawn blood, had ever had to gather together a mixed bag of unlikely allies to fight a war with a creature of nightmares and its minions. Her life had settled into political difficulties more than battle strategies. She could be more concerned with pioneering the latest in fashion, than in worrying if her armor could properly deflect any blows that landed a hit. Her twin blades were used in the training field to keep her from ruining her figure with too many raspberry tortes, instead of making sure those skills were honed so she could save herself in a fight. The letters came in, of course, to remind her when she came close to forgetting. Tales of roaming darkspawn, and those correspondences that were trusted enough to provide a bit _more_ than just tales. There were those awful nightmares, and the thoughts that later plagued her, but for all that, Gwyneth could pretend that those six months belonged to some other displaced noblewoman.

Taking care of the economical well being of her people, providing what shelter and succor were in her power to give, those were not duties of Grey Wardens. As a Warden the concern, the _only_ concern, was the Blight, and ending it. As a queen, she didn't have the luxury of a single minded pursuit. If she was to be only a consort, there at least might have only been the requirement to produce an heir to throne, a duty the redhead wasn't sure she could see through in any case. However, Gwyneth had made her decision, and in joint ruling, her duties stretched out in every direction, covering the lives of every single living citizen of Ferelden.

To say her duty was heavy, that it weighed upon her was true, but it was also true that now that it was in her possession, now that the crown was hers, Gwyneth would have it no other way. _No one would take the young queen's place at King Alistair's side, no one would take her place in the eyes of the people, not over her dead and decaying body. _She_ was the Queen of Ferelden and she _would_ be respected. _It was with that thought in mind that she straightened her shoulders and prepared herself as the revered mother approached.

"Good day to you, Revered Mother Boann, we have matters that require discussion. I apologize for the delay to your trip, but as we are both of us duty bound to the service of these fine people that share the Maker's sun, these matters _must_ reach satisfaction before you can leave. It is under the order of The Crown, as your queen, that I am here. For the love I bear for _all_ of Ferelden's citizens, I must request some of your healers, post haste, on a matter of much urgency."

Mother Boann was not so very old, but not young either, and her middling years were showing the later tilt in her exhaustion. "Of course, Queen Gwyneth, we will speak our peace together. Hopefully the Maker will provide us with the strength needed for your request."

_'A _demand_, Mother, not a _request_!' _But she didn't say it out loud. Gwyneth nodded, her smile finally showing some warmth, even it was produced. "Yes, I look forward to a suitable agreement." With that the two women walked to a private anteroom, and it was with a surety of success that the queen's steps were made.

* * *

Wynne relaxed into the plush chair set around the iron lattice table Gwyneth had received, as one of very many wedding gifts from distant cousins in Tevinter. Though the court mage wasn't sure if they were _really_ her cousins, or just foreign nobles that knew such distant ties were tenuous and difficult to prove or disprove, and wished to get in on good footing with Ferelden's new queen. A queen they probably hoped was naive and impressionable. Wynne chuckled at that thought. _They were in for a sore surprise_. Still the table was nice, and she ran her aging hand across its glass surface and the lace doilies that decorated it.

Neither Gwyneth or Alistair had arrived for the scheduled tea, but the white haired mage wasn't all that shocked by their tardiness. She knew they had been very busy that day, and had heard much of the goings on at the palace, even if she hadn't been privy to all of it firsthand.

Bright blue eyes looked up as a maid approached, carrying a silver tray with a steaming tea pot and three porcelain cups. She curtsied to the court mage, setting the tray on the table before quickly taking her leave. Even after a month spent of getting familiar with Wynne's presence, many of the palace servants were continuously skittish in the presence of a magic user, qualified circle trained and official court mage or no.

Quite soon she'd be gone, and Wynne wasn't so certain either Alistair or Gwyneth would be so quick to fill that position. When they did, however, the aging mage was sure her successor would suffer the same problems. Alistair's reign may have been showing signs of being one of change, but while some things could be pressed swiftly, the minds of the people took their time to adjust.

"I'm here!" The voice came breathless, its owner clearly having arrived in a rush. "I apologize if I'm late. The revered mother proved to be malleable, but still required some time to cajole around to my line of thinking." Gwyneth stood in the peaked archway, looking about her finely decorated salon in confusion. "Did Alistair not arrive yet?"

"Hello dear, and no, I'm afraid not." Wynne smiled up at her kindly, too tired to get up and offer Gwyneth a chair as protocol demanded. Thankfully they were _beyond_ protocol for meetings like these. "Sit down, you're making me feel even more exhausted just watching you pace about."

"Ah, yes . . ." Gwyneth took that seat, smoothing her skirts down and sliding the chair closer to the table, taking a deep and steadying breath. "I've been a bit harried all day. Everything and everyone it seems, is determined to resist the schedule I made. There simply aren't enough hours in the day, but I wouldn't have missed _this_." The second genuine smile of the day lit up her face as she reached across the small circular table to take Wynne's hand and give it an affectionate squeeze. When the moment passed, she rolled her eyes, though not at her lone companion. "That man! Harping on _me _to not be late, and just where is _he_ then?"

"I'm sure some discussion ran over, you know how nobles can be, being that you _are_ one." The corner of Wynne's mouth went up, those pale lips curling into a grin that was barely shy of teasing.

Gwyneth only smiled in good humor. "This is true, and he _was_ busy." A faraway look came to her eyes, and then she reached for the tea, taking in the tendrils of steam and fragrance. "Mmm, Seheron spice tea, isn't it? It smells _divine_."

"You always did have a weakness for tea, as long as I've known you at least."

"Of course, I'm a Fereldish noble, it practically runs through our veins. My mother told me it kept us fine ladies in our right minds during a crisis." Gwyneth took a sip, savoring it with her eyes closed, before glancing at Wynne over the white rim of her cup, to find the woman looking bemused.

"However does _tea_ help in a crisis?" One white brow went up.

"It settles your nerves so you can keep calm and carry on, but you know this, you are mage well schooled in the art of herbalism."

"Yes, but I've never come across any tea quite strong enough to see me through sudden tragedy or chaos." Wynne scoffed, before grinning in humor.

"Pour some of _this_ blend then, it's good for all that ails you."

With a wide smile, Wynne did just that, the two women enjoying their cups of tea with a moment of contemplative silence.

The tall windows of the salon were like a wall of glass, the panes so long as to reach from the ceiling to the floor. Shrubberies kept the view from being straight across, but the both of them could admire a good amount of the royal garden. Late afternoon sunlight swathed the branches of a willow tree with teases of orange and dark red.

"You're proud of him, aren't you?" It was Wynne that broke the silence, setting her cup down on a doily before granting Gwyneth her full attention.

The redhead almost seemed startled, as she set her own cup down without her usual grace. "Sorry?" A question more than an apology.

"Alistair, I mean. You're proud of him, even though you get after him all the time."

Gwyneth shrugged, reaching for the tray to fill her cup to the top again, the polished silver clinking against the porcelain. "If you tell him, I will deny it to my grave, but yes, I suppose that I am. Especially today, you should've been there in that council chamber."

"Yes, well, I doubt the presence of the 'Court Mage' would help much with the nobles in there." Wynne sighed, knowing exactly what that title was good for.

"Perhaps not, still, he was magnificent, and his _vocabulary_! Wynne, I can scarcely believe he's the same person." There was an honest enthusiasm to the queen's voice, hardly even veiled in her eyes either.

"He isn't, neither are _you_ for that matter. A position like yours, it changes you, and if you believe those months as a Grey Warden didn't affect you one wit, you'd be _sorely_ mistaken. But why are telling _me_, why don't you tell _him_? It'd make him happy, I'm sure. He could use your support." The blue eyed mage tipped her empty cup at the redhead instead of nodding, as she too refilled her tea.

"He _has_ my support, here, at the palace, and out there with the public."

"I mean your _real_ support, as his friend."

At this, there was a sigh, and Gwyneth looked to Wynne as if her words should've already been obvious. "But we _aren't_ friends, not anymore. You say that this position changes people? Well arranged marriages change friendships, and not always to betterment either, sometimes to the point that they rupture and bleed out."

"Do you want my honest opinion?"

"When have you given me anything other?"

"Good point." Wynne's smile was short lived, her face suddenly serious. "The two of you create most of your own misery."

"That's hardly a fair statement to make. I'm trying, I'm sure Alistair is too, but we aren't compatible, and if _you_ want honesty, our friendship was fragile and made out of desperation and a lack of options to begin with. It wasn't a _genuine_ sense of camaraderie. I know you weren't there at the beginning, but we _hated_ each other."

"I don't believe that." Wynne shook her head, resolute.

Irritation was pricking Gwyneth's mind, ready to make that leap onto her tongue, but she held back. She didn't want to be irritated, certainly not with Wynne, and certainly not the day before she left. "Well you _ought_ to. My father once told me that if you stuck two ill tempered mabari together in a pit, they'd either try to kill each other, or make an alliance to escape their fate. It is the same with Alistair and I."

"Is that why you are playing him now, to escape your fate?" There was far too much insight in those blue eyes, the full intensity of them set on the queen.

Gwyneth blinked at that, wondering what had prompted that statement. _'Did someone say something?'_ "What makes you think I want to escape my fate? I rather like this title, and my crown is _very_ pretty, and I intend to keep this position until I die. So no, I don't wish freedom from it."

The dark blue of Wynne's decorative robes were in contrast to the sparkle of the clear cut glass of the table. "You don't deny you're playing him then, why?"

A sigh from the queen and a much rarer honesty. "I'm not 'playing' him per se. It's important that _no one _can so easily convince him to forsake me. I just want him to feel . . . as if we've formed a bond."

It was Wynne's turn to sigh, in exasperation. "For Maker's sake, Gwyneth, then actually _do_ so!"

The queen's cup was set down, a little harder than she intended, as she dabbed at her mouth with a napkin, the look of irritation taking up her face. "Do _what_ exactly? Bond with him? _Love_ him? That's as likely as me being killed by a pixie flying down to Thedas on a falling star."

"You always did scoff at fairytales. Where is your sense of enchantment and wonder for this world?" An obvious melancholy was in Wynne's voice.

"It died with my parents, and besides, fairytales are for children and feather headed girls. I am neither." She reached for the cup, but Wynne was persistent, needling at her with those all too seeing irises of hers.

"You're afraid, I can see it in your eyes."

Gwyneth laughed, and not pleasantly. "That's ridiculous! What is it I'm suppose to be afraid of?"

"That he won't need you anymore."

She stopped moving, frozen inside before she could use her tongue to form words again. "No . . . th-that's not true."

Wynne shook her head again, not believing the younger woman for a second. "For such an accomplished actress, you're doing a very poor job of lying to me."

"How _dare_ you!"

"Oh, dear girl, I think you and I are far past the time when you could try and pull rank on me." There was a reprimand in the court mage's tone, but affection as well, knowing that Gwyneth was having a knee-jerk reaction.

There had been times during those months on the road, that Gwyneth had half suspected that Wynne might have had some extra sensory perception. It wasn't as if it was completely unheard of, and it made sense that if psychics really existed that they would be more prominent within the ranks of mages. Sometimes, the niggling thought was a bit more than _half _suspected. _Somehow she knew, somehow Wynne _always_ knew, whether someone told her or not. _"Yes, I apologize . . . I shouldn't have said that, you're leaving tomorrow and then, well, I'm just . . ."

"Upset, and I wish you'd tell me what has gotten after you so, but you always were stubborn about opening up to people. It reminds me of a young mage I once knew, always cracking wise, and _frequently_ escaping from the circle tower, but he covered everything up with witty one liners and acerbic insults. Underneath, he was still a young man, still afraid, and still lonely, just as you are." There was compassion and a latent sorrow on Wynne's face.

Gwyneth tried to smile, tried to make light of it. "I'm not a young _man_."

"Just as I said, especially with the cracking wise." Wynne grinned, that affection inside her for Gwyneth, bubbling up as a hot spring, but she quickly sobered, knowing this was her last chance to help. It was her last gift of friendship to the woman, and Wynne was all too aware of the finality in such thinking. She sighed heavily, wearied by her own mortality and the lengthening days. "Gwyneth, you are an amazing politician, and I'm certainly glad that your active mind wasn't wasted on a meaningless marriage or some insipid noble's lifestyle . . . "

The redhead spluttered at that, looking entirely indignant, but Wynne interrupted before she could work herself into a right temper.

"No, no, now don't get up in arms with me, just listen. I've learned to accept that you can be an incredibly conniving young woman, sometimes I can admit that's been a good thing, it's won you favor where you needed it and support to defeat the Blight, but also, it can be a very _bad_ thing. Especially when you use it against the wrong people. Alistair was your friend once, and believe me when I tell you I've given him an earful about _his_ part in this mess of a marriage you two have, but he doesn't deserve to be played. Neither is it necessary and I think, deep down, you _know_ that. For all that you try to tell me that you were barely friends, you were almost as siblings once, and that is nothing to turn your nose up at. I realize that can't _quite_ be the relationship you have now, it'd make things awkward, but friendship? That's entirely possible, and no, it won't be the one you did have, it'll be different, but it will also be honest. I think you might find that if you are truly worried that he won't need you, that you might get replaced or put aside, that is far less likely to happen if you tell him the truth, and open up to him. He needs it, you need it, and the _both_ of you need to have a _truly_ strong bond if you are to rule Ferelden the way I know you want to. False fronts only work for so long, but if you stand together, that can last for an _eternity. _Even after you are both gone, the effect of such a strong union will have a lasting impact on this country."

Gwyneth drummed her fingers against the table before taking her mug in hand, the warm contents managing to help her speak. It was a lot to process. "Is that your long winded way of saying you think I'm going about this all wrong?"

"Yes."

"I shall . . . take it under advisement, then." The queen nodded, the ringlet of hair at the bottom of her braid bouncing at the movement.

Wynne was honestly surprised, but happily so. "That's more than I would've expected."

Seriousness set aside for a moment, Gwyneth grinned, feeling that old familiar cheek rising in her again. "You're leaving tomorrow, I should at least take the advice of an old woman to heart just _once_."

A chuckle from the court mage, and a docile roll of her eyes. "Oh, Maker, thank you for these small blessings."

"_Now_ who's cracking wise?" Gwyneth smiled into her cup, her brief bit of temper towards Wynne for her interjection, all but spent. She may have been quick to anger even at the best of times, but not with Wynne, _never_ with Wynne.

"Hello ladies, have I missed anything terribly important?" The warm voice of the young king floated into the room before the man himself materialized in the doorway, blue doublet folded over one arm to expose the white of his dress shirt beneath it.

Gwyneth looked to Wynne who raised a brow at her encouragingly. She patted the back of the chair next to hers, smiling up at the king. "Nothing all that exciting. Wynne and I were discussing the . . . setting of precedent."

Alistair grinned, pulling the chair back and all but plopping down in it. "So, I didn't miss the part where you tell us all about cussing out the revered mother? That's good, because I'd really like to hear that."

Wynne scowled at him, before chuckling low in her throat at the memories that came back of some of Alistair's more boyish moments on the road.

Gwyneth acted affronted. "I did no such thing, that Mother Perpetua though, I think we shall have to watch her. She doesn't care for me all that well, and I got the feeling she felt my instituting of rank was inappropriate. I'm of half a mind that it was _she_ who sent the letter about the revered mother leaving, since Mother Boann herself didn't have so much objection to speaking with me as I anticipated." The redhead reached for the tea pot as the king held out his cup. "But, I'll have my chapel here at the palace when we finally get around to beginning the new construction, and more importantly, we shall have our healers in the alienage, by noon bell tomorrow."

"That's our Gwyn. I knew you wouldn't give up until you got what you wanted." There may have been something venomous in those words, but Alistair's face betrayed none of that as he enjoyed the scent of the spice tea. "She lit a fire at the council chamber, Wynne, you should've heard her."

Wynne smirked. "That's odd, because she suggested the _same_ thing about _you_." At the way Alistair perked up, and the sharp stabbing glare from the queen, she hid her chuckle in her napkin as she dabbed her face. "Or maybe, she was speaking of herself, my old mind, it just doesn't work as well as it used to.

Alistair rolled his eyes. "Yeah, that sounds about right." He took a long sip of the tea, surprised at its potency.

A shared glance between the two women, the mage's one of prompting and Gwyneth's one of surrender to the suggestion. _In for a copper, in for fifteen crowns. _She sighed. "No, I was speaking of you." Gwyneth didn't give her husband time to be surprised. "I was telling Wynne about your _own_ setting of precedent with your privy council. I take it that's what kept you from this tea?"

"Well, you know how Eamon can be when he has a bug up his . . . well, I don't think I should say." Alistair's lips twitched under the upper line of his thickening goatee.

"I regret that I had to leave before it was over. Tell me about it." She reached for a honey stick from a bowl set in the middle of the table, dipping it into the tea as she swirled the rich dark liquid.

"Yes, I want to hear about Alistair the Dragon King telling those noblemen all about themselves." Wynne chuckled, sharing Gwyneth's smirk of amusement.

"Alistair the Dragon King?" He raised a dark blonde brow.

"It was the best I could come up with on short notice."

The afternoon settled into a fine moment of relaxation, where the laughter was genuine. For that short bit of time, they were just three companions, sharing their exploits. What reality would dump on them when the tea was done, was more than enough of a prompt to enjoy what little simplicity there was anymore.


	26. Chapter 26: Season For Storms

**Disclaimer:** _"Dragon Age: Origins" and all its expansions and additional content is the property of Bioware and EA Games. Large portions of written content within the game, as well as Dragon's Age: The Stolen Throne, and Dragon's Age: Calling, are the creation of David Gaider. Original scenarios and characters are used under the creative license of the writer, ItalianEmpress1985. No profit is being made and the following story is for entertainment purposes only_

**Words From The Author: **_I sometimes suspect that the PM system is buggy, as some responses look as if they haven't even been sent when I check my outbox. So I wanted everyone to know that I have written a response to ALL of you leaving signed reviews, and if you haven't gotten them, I apologize. If you ever have a question to ask, some advice you aren't sure I listened to, or just really wanted a response to your review and for some reason the system didn't send it, please feel free to email me if you like. italianempress(AT)gmail(DOT)com_

_I hope everyone had a good Thanksgiving, if you celebrate that holiday, though I think they should rename it to Stuff Yourself With Food Day :p I still have some leftover turkey in my fridge, so anyone up for some turkey sandwiches? ;)_

_Anyway, I had trouble in how to end this chapter, so it took a little while, but thank you to those that have remained my loyal readers and any new readers I may have picked up. As always I'm very grateful for your readership and reviews and I hope everyone is having a happy holiday season so far._

_Thank you for stopping in. Watch out for low flying dragons!_

* * *

_**Chapter Twenty Six:**_

_**Season For Storms**_

* * *

May 31'st, 9:31 Dragon Age

**A** brisk wind had kicked up, whistling as it traveled through the cramped buildings of the city, rattling shutters and kicking up dust that had dried on the muddied streets. Two elven children stood on a worn scaffold, plucking the fluff off of some dandelions from their pockets, giggling as the wind carried the white puffs away and past the walls of the alienage.

"You two get down here, it's our turn to be seen by the healers!" Their mother called, and they pouted but obeyed.

The remnants of those dandelions danced across the city, their ride taking them over the estate district, where manor guards stood watch. "Gonna be a bad year for storms, my wife says." One guard mentions, shifting in his armor, as the other agrees. "Aye, my father has the arthritis, whole right knee is swollen up. He's had bad aches, must mean there's a storm brewin' out there."

Neither the wind or its delicate passengers care for the conversation as they move onward towards the home of the king and queen, where the trip ends as the dandelion puffs collide with the purple and gold flags of the Royal Palace.

Arl Eamon Guerrein looked up, watching the wind ripple the two proud mabari, the fabric whipping in a jagged rhythm. His joints were hurting him so badly that morning that he'd almost reconciled himself to using a cane, but he refused to look so weak, and despite Arlessa Isolde's stern reprimands, he had made do with what strength he had on his own. "It's going to be a season for tempests, I think."

"Yes dear-heart, and they'll all be calm compared to _my_ temper if you don't get off your feet." Isolde scolded, the thin red cloak she had wrapped around her billowing out, the cowl blown back from her Orlesian face.

Eamon smiled, the corners of his wizened mouth seeming to brighten the dark blue-green in his eyes. He took his wife's hand and kissed it, bringing it briefly to his cheek to hold her knuckles against him. "Soon, my love, but we have to get through this morning first." Once he was in full view of those gathered, the affection on his face melted away to the collected facade he carried almost as a badge of honor, though it remained true and ever blooming in his heart.

The sky was a pale stretch of cloud cover, not even a space of blue visible for the sun to fall on the grand stone steps of the Royal Palace. A dampness could be felt in the air, lingering but not heavy, a dreary day that neither promised rain or sun, but stayed maddeningly caught between the two. It may well have been that a storm lay in wait upon the unseen horizon, but it was only threat, not a promise.

A company of soldiers was gathered there, under the grey sky, their chainmail armor looking polished, but dull without the gleam the hidden sun would've provided. Mistress Wynne, seeing her last day as the acting court mage, was a flash of burgundy red and gold robes amidst the colorless hue of her armored traveling companions. The aging woman wore a light cloak to shield her from the wind, though it seemed a pointless precaution as the cowl fluttered against the back of her neck, strands of that white hair coming free from their tight ties to fly back from her face. She held her mage's staff as a cane, lacking the worry for public perception that hounded Arl Eamon. Wynne glanced up at him as the man approached, Arlessa Isolde trying to be discreet as she gripped her husband's elbow, so it wouldn't look like she was helping him along. The elder mage half wondered if Eamon's poisoning hadn't increased the adverse affects of his age, for while the man was well past mid life, he wasn't quite _that_ old.

"At least it hasn't rained yet." Blue eyes twinkled, excited for the trip even for the sorrow in leaving those she cared about behind, where it wasn't likely Wynne would ever see them again.

"For the sake of your trip, let us hope it remains up there in the Maker's firm grasp. It would hardly help the rebuilding efforts here in the city either." Eamon groused, his gruff voice changing in tone as he approached Wynne without the aid of his wife. He reached a worn hand out to pat the woman on the shoulder, all the affection he was comfortable with giving. "You are a good woman, and have been of great aid here. You shall be missed." He smiled, and it wasn't without feeling.

Eamon had never been at ease with a great many personal displays of affection, no matter how sparing or with whom. The aging arl knew what happened to those that wore their hearts upon their sleeves and passed their regard as easily as a handshake. Since those hectic days that had seen the boy grow into the man that would be Arl of Redcliffe, Eamon had promised himself that he could always depend on his quietly private compassion and stoicism.

That he had bonded with Wynne over their respective ages and responsibilities in the palace, was a truth. The king and queen, though entering into their twentieth year, were still fairly young and impulsive and needed someone to guide them. As of late, Eamon had been concerned about that, the tearing down of the alienage wall such a bold and possibly foolish move that he couldn't help but worry, and feel anger at their lack of thought as to the pitfalls of such a decision. Wynne had been Eamon's one advocate when it came to talking sense into the pair of them, and that was especially true with the brash queen. Alistair had grown into his own man, or at least such a journey had visibly begun, and what affection yet remained in the king's heart for the man that he would call uncle, was not always enough for Eamon to use. The king only half listened, but at least it was half. Gwyneth could only be reasoned with if he had planned a strategy around her. She was far too much like her mother, and with the combined focus of her father, it made it even worse. Eamon doubted that without Wynne there, he would have any sway at all over the former Cousland.

For that bit of affection, small as it may have been, between the Steward of the Crown and the Court Mage, he would miss Wynne. For her common sense and bond with both sovereigns he would grieve the loss of a compatriot in the cause of creating a more _grounded_ greatness out of the king and queen.

"As will you, Arl Guerrein, I have learned much about nobility that I don't think I would've understood without your council. I wish you every luck and good fortune, for you, your wife and of course for your son. I'll keep all of you in my thoughts, if I manage to find the time that is. I imagine traveling under such conditions will leave me little to spare, but I couldn't wait any longer." She smiled, a warmth and composure there as she nodded in Arlessa Isolde's direction, the red gold of that woman's hair catching what scant light there was as she offered a tighter smile and nodded in return.

Isolde had been increasingly wary of all mages since the incident with her son, even if that had been resolved, Wynne imagined the woman might never recover from it fully. Though it was unfortunate, the court mage couldn't really blame her. She had lost her own son before she could even name him, but from one mother to another, Wynne could understand what it must have been like trying to do everything in your power to protect your child, only to cause even worse problems, and nearly losing your son in the process. There may have been a bit of regret in Wynne, for having never said anything to the woman, but Isolde hardly made it easy.

Her gaze traveled up the stairs as Alistair and Gwyneth appeared, looking resplendent as usual, in dark green and pale yellow, the color making the queen's already light skin look even more so. Without the sun to bother her, she was without her new parasol, but more surprisingly also without her Lady in Waiting once again. Neither was the petite brunette seamstress at her side, only her faithful Noble, trotting at an even pace and looking nothing like a war dog, and her husband, an arm bent out for her to curl one hand around. The both of them smiled, not bothering to hide the melancholy behind it. There was no large crowd gathered, no commoners to please with fancy speeches or tide over with any heavy promises. Just that small traveling company, of whom were made up of those that were in service to The Crown. They bowed on bended knee before rising, Ser Mhairi amongst them, and showing every bit of excitement and pride as the king's attention swung her way.

Ser Mhairi rose from where she was bowing before the King and Queen of Ferelden, placing her silverite helmet over her head, the cut of the metal revealing parts of her face. "I promise I will make The Crown proud to have had me amongst the Knights of Denerim, and I will survive the Joining and serve Ferelden as its newest Grey Warden, I know it to be true."

Alistair was warmed by the young woman's wherewithal and certainty, though he knew firsthand that _nothing_ about the future was ever certain. "You've made me proud already, through your exemplary service, Ser Mhairi."

Gwyneth's smile was not as broad as Alistair's but there was brightness to it anyway. "Take what you have learned from the king's knights and use that knowledge to fell those darkspawn beasts, and you will have _my_ pride. Commander Caron should be very lucky to have you with him, and I am certain that upon meeting him, you will both begin to do much to institute a brighter age for not only the Wardens, but for Ferelden as well."

The female knight bowed once more before taking her place at the head of the traveling retinue. She had a letter from the king with her, to be handed to Ser Gerod Caron, the new Warden Commander of Ferelden, and it was with a very genuine pride for herself that she would deliver it. Mhairi had always had a very strong sense of duty to The Crown, and it hadn't faded with the new sovereigns. She was a loyalist to the end, and likely always would be.

Wynne would accompany the small group to Vigil's Keep, and from there had a much smaller escort to take her into the city where she could charter passage on a ship to Nevarra, by order and funds from Gwyneth. Though displeased with the other woman's departure, the queen had been true to her word. The court mage had every assurance that she would reach Cumberland, and the College of Magi, in time. Come bad weather, bandits, roadblocks or even darkspawn, Wynne was ready. If not for the sorrow at leaving Alistair and Gwyneth.

It was the tall queen that came forward first, observing protocol and merely taking the older woman's hands in her own, but then affection overcame that and Gwyneth embraced her openly, arms going about Wynne's shoulders. She sniffed, fighting back the urge to cry and kissed the mage's cheek, smiling sadly, those silver eyes glittering with the threat of tears. "You are my dear, dear friend, Wynne. Always remember that, and know that I expect you to write us both as soon as you have settled into the college."

Wynne smiled, equally as melancholic, but resolute with what she had to do. She gripped Gwyneth's long fingers in her own for one last embrace. "Of _course_ I will, you know I will."

Noble got in between them to nudge his broad head against Wynne's hip, whining low in his throat, those intelligent brown canine eyes staring up at her. She reached a weathered hand down to rub the mabari's head between his ears.

She turned to Alistair, stretching to hug him as wholly as he had her, muscled arms almost crushing the white-haired woman in his emotion.

"We wanted so badly to go with you, but I have to finalize this privy council and we have to make sure that the rebuilding process in the alienage has at least been planned before we can start thinking about taking down that wall." Alistair didn't admit the trepidation he felt at such a monumental undertaking, the grief he felt for losing Wynne was paramount to any of that. "I should be there to see you off."

"Your duties are here now, not to help an old lady carry her bags onto a ship. Besides, I've packed light." Wynne held her smile as Alistair released her, taking in the faces of the new king and queen, committing them to memory. "I'm sure you might come and visit me at the college, in any case, sooner or later." Her voice was assuring, even as she doubted very much that she would live that long. There were too many things to do in Denerim, and too many tasks that needed handling throughout Ferelden for Alistair or Gwyneth to visit Nevarra any time soon.

Both of them knew that, where the heavy knowledge and sorrow of Wynne's imminent passing was written on their faces, reflected in eyes of rich brown and bright silver. There were more words to be said, instructions given, but all of it passed far too quickly for Wynne's liking. "I know that the country takes precedence, but take care of _yourselves_ too." She nodded her ivory head at them, giving a short bow that almost proved too much for the rapidly declining health of her bones. "I'll miss you more than words would do justice." It was hardly the appropriate thing to say, but no one cared overmuch for propriety just then, certainly not with the intimately small audience collected there to see it. Not even Eamon complained. "But I am so very glad to have shared your company for the short time I had with the both of you. I believe in you both and I'll continue to do so, even all the way from Nevarra. _Never_ forget that."

Gwyneth swiped suspiciously at her cheeks, nodding slowly, her smile coming slow and sadly. For once she could think of nothing to say, a hand on Noble's head where he nuzzled it in comfort. Alistair instead filled the silence. "And _we'll_ miss _you_, Wynne, more than we can say."

There was a unity in his words that chipped away a bit of the sadness the mage felt, and her smile held true as the party began their travels away from the Royal Palace. Her mind took her backwards even as she moved forwards.

_Early January had hit hard, and no amount of blankets could keep Wynne warm, her aching bones protesting every movement she made, the wind trying to get at the scant tent she'd been afforded. They'd set up camp in the thick forests at the base of the Frostback Mountains and it offered a bit of shelter, but the trees cared little for the warmth of their visitors and neither did the wind. Giving in, Wynne grabbed her empty stew bowl, the stoneware chill in her hands. Under her breath came the words that were customary, but not always necessary, and a slow tinder-less fire began inside the rounded earthenware. She sighed and leaned back, keeping the flame small and enjoying the heat. There had been many times she'd scolded apprentices on the careless misuse of magic for vanity or fun, but the elder mage thought the cold was a good excuse._

_"Oy! What's that then? I thought we used all the candles!" The surprised voice of the young blonde Warden sounded out, his booted footsteps coming closer to Wynne's tent._

_"Probably just some minor magic, leave her alone." A scolding voice returned, likely belonging to the stuck up noblewoman that was their unofficial leader._

_"_Just_ some _magic_?" The man's shocked question came through loud and clear, as if he couldn't believe the woman was so blasé about it. _

_Wynne recalled something about that Warden having almost been a templar._

_"Yes, perhaps you missed the whole episode within the Circle Tower where we rescued some people from demons out of the fade, and picked up an old woman that was one of those people . . . oh, now what do they call those kinds of folk? Morrigan help me out here will you?" The voice was saccharine sweet, a sharp teasing note in the back of her throat._

_"I believe they were mages." A snicker from the other female voice outside Wynne's tent, full of a mean glee._

_"Yes! That was it. Mages. Huh. Imagine, _mages_ using _magic_ . . . silly isn't it?" That overly sweet voice again._

_"You know, Gwyneth, you don't have to be such a snot about it." Disgruntled, the young man sounded as if he'd stopped moving towards Wynne's tent._

_"Yes, Alistair, and _you_ don't have to be such a nosy idiot. Alas, we all have our failings." A fraudulent sigh, followed by a higher pitched note. "No! Now leave her be . . . Alistair, Alistair!"_

_Wynne looked up as the tent flap came open, letting in a chilly breeze that snuck around the frame of the tall blonde Warden that stood there. His brown eyes were almost black in the shadows of the woods. _

_Gwyneth stood behind him, a woolen cloak obscuring her hair and most of her face, though what was visible looked quite annoyed. She rolled her eyes. "I apologize for my friend, he's a moron."_

_"I am _not_!" Exasperated at the smirk on his fellow Warden's face, he rolled his own eyes, before they were drawn down and sheepish, looking at Wynne. "You were just trying to get warm weren't you? I . . . I'm sorry, it's just since the tower, and then that whole business with Arl Eamon's son . . ." He might've added Morrigan to that list, the apostate was enough to make anyone overly wary, but with Gwyneth right there he would probably earn her wrath more than he already had._

_"I understand, young man, believe me I do." Wynne smiled gently, hands not leaving the steady warm comfort of the magical fire inside the stew bowl._

_"Wait!" The tall man turned to the woman behind him, distracted from a likely forthcoming apology. "Gwyneth, you just called me your _friend_!" His voice couldn't have been filled with more shock._

_A wrinkled nose proceeded the denial. "No, I didn't."_

_"Yes you _did_!" There was a delight that had snuck in there, though whether it was at the bare fact alone, or that Alistair had something on Gwyneth, Wynne wasn't sure._

_She watched in amusement as the bickering continued back and forth, before the wind finally put an end to that purile enjoyment. "I really hate to interrupt, but could you two take your 'discussion' away from my tent. The wind here in the foothills isn't so very forgiving with these old bones." The mage shivered for effect, nodding as Alistair became profuse with sincere apologies, the kind he probably would've made earlier if he hadn't been distracted._

_Wynne chuckled low in her throat as the argument continued outside, the silhouettes of the two Wardens making them visible against the orange of a small campfire. Cold as her tent was, the elderly mage was more comfortable for the scant protection it offered, than she would've been by the meager campfire, however persistent against the wind as it might've been. _

_They were an alright pair, the two Wardens. If only they could manage to get along, what a force they may have been. However, the circle mage couldn't deny finding some of their bickering to be endearingly entertaining._

Back amongst present reality, the ivory haired woman smiled sadly at that memory, as many others sat inside her mind as well. She had felt a fondness for the two of them very early in their association, sometimes finding amusement at their antics and banter, and other times offering sage advice and occasional censure. What had remained steady throughout her differing reactions to the pair of them, was that she always saw something grand in both of the Wardens. That opinion remained with her still.

As Wynne passed the imposing iron gates, she craned her neck back, looking at Gwyneth and Alistair standing on the stairs. Alone, in spite of the company, holding the other's hand as they watched their friend disappear into the city. She only hoped that there was some small glimmer of genuine friendship that remained. It had been something indeed to watch unfurl. An unlikely alliance, and perhaps Gwyneth was right in that it had been formed out of desperation, but Wynne's eyesight was not so poor and neither was her sense. She had seen a friendship that was real, if not tenuous and odd, one that if gone forever, would be a tragedy . . . and not just for Gwyneth and Alistair, but for Ferelden as well.

Together they were so much stronger, and apart their own flaws became more obvious, and Wynne tried not to cry for her own sorrow at not being there to watch the changes they would effect. She managed, as the stalwart woman had always done, composing herself until she was out of sight, and finally had to hide her face inside her cowl, the slow and steady tears soundless but full of every love and best wish she left with Gwyneth and Alistair.

* * *

There was always an unending supply of letters to be read, and even more that wound up being discarded. When Alistair first sat in that chair, the whole of the king's study surrounding him, he had foolishly thought that one of the easiest tasks of that station would be answering letters. _'Wrong!'_ He went to rub his nose in frustration, only to hit his brow bone with his wedding ring. He was so used to the thing by now, that it shouldn't have happened, it was ridiculous, but then _Alistair_ was ridiculous, or so he told himself, feeling very out of sorts. The young blonde drew the offending hand back and glared at that ring, but he knew it had been caused by his temper, and relaxed back into the chair, the weariest of sighs escaping him. It was a heavy day, and the weight of his crown had not lessened at all, whether he wore it or not.

Eamon had been quite angry with him over the business with the wall separating the elves from the humans, but Alistair held his ground. He knew there were other concerns, too many to even begin listing, let alone vocally number in one meeting. What Alistair also knew was how it felt to be on the other side of that wall, to feel as if he should be ashamed of where he was, hidden away so no one could see him. Those elven eyes had bore holes into the tall Grey Warden during the short time that he'd been there, before the Blight hit Denerim. Even though their group had gone to help the elves, to find out what was going on, to those that lived there, it was just another intrusion, another instance of 'shems' trying to stick their noses where they didn't belong. Inherited mistrust was a terrible thing, and it existed in both humans and elves. Alistair even imagined there were some city elves that preferred the wall there, thinking that it kept them from prying eyes and wayward human hands. If the ranting of Darrian Tabris was to be believed, and the king _did_ believe him, than that wasn't so. If the wall had served as anything but a reminder of segregation and imagined safety, elven women wouldn't be molested by humans looking to go 'slumming it' on a regular basis and neither would bullies go into the alienage thinking that their shorter pointy eared counterparts were too weak to fight back.

It was a big step, a huge step, and as expected the Steward had argued caution and better timing, and just as it had been with the privy council, Alistair didn't want to wait to take action. He wanted something that would change lives, and do so in such a way that it couldn't be ignored. But he wasn't a fool, and he knew what tearing down the wall would mean. Anger and hate amongst the humans, the racism existing on both sides would likely surmount, there would be protests and soldiers would have to be kept in place to prevent rioting. '_But that wall was coming down, come Hell or high water.'_

Foremost however, he had to deal with the grain shortages in the city, the rebuilding efforts, seeing to providing licenses for the elves so they could leave the alienage without needing to be employed outside it. None of those were small matters either, and though far less flashy, Alistair was determined to see them through as well.

The young king had managed to hide his sorrow at Wynne's departure in work, surprisingly grateful for the weight of his duties for once, his mind so abuzz with what he had to do that there was little time for naught else.

He looked up at the light rap to the door. "Enter."

A young elven boy stood there with a tray of tea and what looked suspiciously like the sweetened cheese tortes Gwyneth had ordered made for him those many mornings ago. "Her Majesty sent me, Highness, she said she didn't want you to waste away in here." Cautious as he set the tray down on the edge of the desk at the king's motion, he bobbed his head and headed for door.

"Young man . . ." Alistair's voice had gained in strength in these earlier days of his rule, and sometimes the commanding sound of it surprised even _him_. For a brief moment he saw Leliana's sad face, hazy in memory or dream, he couldn't say, those beautiful blue eyes melancholic and accusing. "_Look at what you have become, mon amour. I don't recognize you any longer." _He shook his head, temporarily free of the weight of his dark gold crown, and wished away the demons inside his head. A brief and tight smile was offered to the elven servant, waiting at the doorway. "If I were to ask you, as an elf, what in your life needed the most improvement, and you could choose only one thing, what would it be?"

There was a pause as the servant decided what was the best answer.

"It's alright, I'm not trying to bait you, just speak your mind." The king encouraged.

"Well, Sire . . . I don't really . . ." Still unsure, the servant found it difficult to meet his sovereign's eyes. The man had beheaded a nobleman he didn't like by his own hand and sword, while the man's daughter watched, all those gossips in the palace said so, and from the blood stain still on the stones and hidden under the rugs, the elf standing there believed it. _What would he do to a _servant_ that displeased him? _In the end, the young elven man figured that not answering would bring an even more severe punishment. Still, he chose his words carefully. "Well, I suppose that having the same assistance and building standards as the human quarters of the city would be the most important thing, to _me_. Right now, everything is such a mess that some of our homes are death traps. I mean, there are several things that _could_ be improved, but yes, I'd have to say it's the state of the buildings in the alienage right now."

Alistair nodded, raking a hand through his hair. "I see. Thank you, young man. You're excused." The sound of the door followed the servant's exit as Alistair went back to his paperwork. No matter which of the elven staff he had dropped the question on, hoping that an unexpected query would belie a more honest answer, they had all said the same thing. Rebuilding had to be better. It was the same thing the king's human subjects wanted, and it was one of the hardest to enact. Alistair needed more materials, safer ways of transporting any _imported_ materials, and more manpower; all items on a list of difficulties.

He sighed, reaching for one of the cheese tortes, and smiled in spite of himself. For the queen's own concerns, she hadn't forgotten him entirely.

* * *

Warm water, light with the fragrance of rose oil, soaked into the skin of queen's soles, the edge of her washing gown lain tucked at her knees to free it from the large bowl. Two serving women washed the feet of their sovereign as another worked buttermilk lotion into her hands and arms. Gwyneth closed her eyes, trying to wish away an incipient headache and hoping the bit of pampering would help. She was contemplating having this washing ritual as a regular regimen. Being clean and refreshed was of great aid in feeling better focused and rejuvenated.

Last night and all that morning she had to keep herself from seeking Siofra out. At first, the queen had certainly wanted to, but then she realized that it was _Siofra's_ duty to attend _her_, and as such, the Lady in Waiting would arrive when summoned and would apologize, or she would lose her position. As much as Gwyneth had liked the pretty blonde elfess, if she couldn't be depended on any longer, she would have to be replaced. The setting of precedent was paramount, even in the queen's household, perhaps _especially_ there.

Still, even after the summons had been sent, just past the lunch hour, Gwyneth had not been expecting the woman quite that soon. When the knock came at the door to her private apartment, she assumed it was another serving girl . . . it was not.

"Majesty . . . I. . ." Siofra's honey blonde curls had been held aloft to reveal a face full of apology. Those bright blue eyes dulled, by either guilt or worry, perhaps even a mixture of the two.

Gwyneth narrowed her eyes at the elven woman, motioning to the women that were taking care of her. "Leave us." With a flick of her wrist, there were curtsies and the servants had left, shutting the door as Siofra watched them go. The queen waited until she was sure they had gained some ground down the hallway.

Siofra went to take a seat, but Gwyneth shook her head.

"I think you can remain standing." Rising slowly from her chair, the queen wrapped a silken robe about herself to cover the washing gown, toweling her feet herself with finely woven linens left by the women attending her. "Now then, I assume you have come to explain yourself. Since if you were as suddenly ill and prostrate as you claimed, you would likely still be abed. Yet, here you stand, before me, and looking fairly hale unless my eyes deceive me." There was no shouting or loud anger in the redhead's voice, but far worse was that quiet steadfastness, as if she were a snake calmly waiting in the grass for the right opportunity to strike.

Bonny blue eyes seemed less so, and Siofra forced herself to straighten her back. "There is no excuse, Your Majesty, and if I have offended you in some manner, then you have my utmost apology."

"Offended me? Well, yes, one might say so, but one might more strenuously add that you have severely impacted your own career by the stunt you pulled yesterday. Do not for one moment think me fool enough to believe that you were at all ill, Siofra. Not only is the timing convenient on your part, and less than so on mine, but you are hardly sickly as you stand here. As I clearly noted when you arrived, and that image hasn't wavered, now has it? Tying this into the trepidation you presented that morning for worry that your own family would not know you, it paints a suspicious image." The queen folded her long arms across her chest, chin tilted to give her the impression of being yet taller than she already was. An inner smile formed when Siofra flinched, and Gwyneth knew her approach was working. At least on one with a guilty conscience, such as she imagined her Lady in Waiting had, as well the elfess should.

"I . . . please, Majesty, forgive me! I had not meant . . ." Siofra went to bend down on her knees but the commanding note to the queen's voice stopped her, as the elfess swiped at her face.

"Enough of that Siofra, I won't have you begging and blubbering before me. Either explain yourself or leave, I'm in no mood for theatrics today."

She sniffled once more, tucking wayward blonde curls back behind her pointed ears, and composed herself as the queen had done on several occasions, wherein the Lady in Waiting had made the attempt to emulate her. "You . .. you are correct, Majesty, in that it was no openly visibly illness that waylaid me, but a sickness of the heart." A sigh escaped her, the tears all but dried up. Siofra glanced at the queen, to find the woman watching her with a raised brow and an impatient set to her features. "I should've pressed my concerns better, but with all due respect Your Majesty, if I am being honest, I don't think your own background would make you able to understand how I felt."

On the verge of losing her temper, Gwyneth all but snorted at that. "No? Perhaps then you should tell me now, since you failed to make that clear yesterday when it truly mattered the most."

Though possessing a lovely fragrance, and the balcony doors open to let in fresh air, the atmosphere of the queen's apartment felt stifling just then. The weight of that pressing so on Siofra that she found forming her next words to be a difficult task. "My Queen, you met my family, and my more . . . passionate . . . cousin, surely you must've gained a sense of their expectations and anger. To be so presented before them, they would've seen me as a traitor, and not only would that break my heart, but it could've ruined the meeting." Daring to bow, despite the queen's protestations, Siofra swept down and back up rather grandly. "I do realize that perhaps Lyrel Adriels was an unusual choice, but her Mistress told me that she never failed to do as she was told, and she was the most literate elf I could find in short notice, that would've looked presentable enough for your meeting with my family. When I myself was not there. I know that displeases you, and that I should've have been more honest, but I really do believe that my presence wouldn't have helped you as you imagined."

There was silence that followed, where Queen Gwyneth could react horribly to that, and Siofra might find herself without a job, or if King Alistair was involved, than missing perhaps even her _head_. So far, the rumors of the man did not seem to match with the calm, though occasionally excitable, demeanor that Siofra had seen. Though the elfess didn't know the man, and though she spent time in the queen's company, didn't necessarily know _her_ either. Humans were an unpredictable lot at times, and not for the good of those they shared company with either.

"You understand of course, that no matter the soundness you present here today, that your failure to do so yesterday, in fact sending said Miss Adriels to relay words that you _yourself_ should've done, is a crime against your station. Lying to one's queen, even more so. If you are to keep this position, then there must be a punishment for your dereliction of duties as my Lady in Waiting."

Siofra looked up in sharp surprise at the queen's proclamation. "I . . . you would retain me in your services?"

Gwyneth smirked at that, "You object? I'm certain you could find other work, though less important of course . . ." She trailed off, letting that sink in.

"No!" The blonde cleared her throat, calming herself. "I mean, no, Your Majesty. Of course I want this position. To serve you is my greatest pride on Thedas, and I submit myself to your judgment."

"Very good. Then you are to serve as dungeon maid for the period that the two guards you incriminated are imprisoned." That regal head remained aloft. "This is in addition, of course, to your resuming of duties for The Crown, namely myself."

Siofra almost flinched at that, to deliver food to the two men who would almost certainly know she was the one that ratted them out. Still, they were behind bars, and there was little to fear beyond their barbarous words. However when they got out . . . "Majesty, if I may, won't those men be hatefully angry with me once they are released from their own punishment?"

"Well, yes, I suppose they might be, but if you fear for your safety, then let them know that any action against _you_ is an action against _The Crown_. If they want to avoid further punishment, they will obey, or a private flogging and a week long stay in the palace dungeon, shall be the _least_ of their troubles." Gwyneth was haughty and assured of her thoughts on the matter.

The Lady in Waiting wasn't sure she could deliver those kinds of lines with the same venomous tenacity as the queen, but she'd certainly try. She bowed once more, thankful that she still had her position. "I understand. Her Majesty is most gracious. I shall attend to my duties, forthwith."

Gwyneth watched her go, knowing that she had her _own_ admissions to make, though she wasn't entirely sure she wanted to.

* * *

Someone was knocking on the door again, or at least Alistair thought they might be. He was having a wonderful dream just then, and there was irritation as his mind caught up with the conscious world. He mumbled more than once, the angry words little more than growls and grunts of assorted volume. Finally something coherent escaped his pouting lips. "What the hell is it?"

The right side of his face felt stiff and overly warm, and when he raised it from the desk, the king realized that some drool had made a few papers stick there. He yanked them off as the door came open, and he was ready to lob some insincere apology that he was working and couldn't be bothered.

"I'm not sure that's the most _politic_ way to answer someone, but I'll forgive you _this_ time, being that it's so late on in the evening." Gwyneth shut the thick wood door behind her, and rested against it before she made the small trek across the study, to the edge of the king's desk, where she perched one gown encased hip. "What on Thedas?" At a closer glance, she made out the bright red patch on one of Alistair's cheeks, but before she could touch it, he was up and out of the chair.

"I was . . . resting my head for a bit." Alistair rubbed the back of his neck, watching his wife nervously, unsure of her intentions. They'd both been so industrious yesterday, that the evening prior had not yielded the same adult activity as the one before that. With Wynne's leaving and yet more matters to keep both of them embroiled in duty, he hadn't the time to even think on what his relationship with Gwyneth was anymore. Now that the young king _did_ have a moment, he almost wished he was still busy with his letters.

They both had roles to play and duties to see through, and that created some ease between them, but in moments such as the one now, it wasn't so easy to pretend it was so simple a thing. It was complicated, _very_ complicated, and that was putting it mildly.

"Perhaps more than a bit, by your appearance. Maybe it's time for bed then?" She smiled without pretense, just letting the expression form as it wanted to. "This day has been too long already." Her gaze left his to swing about the room. "And from the looks, most of your work will still be here tomorrow."

Alistair groaned at that. "Ugh! Don't remind me. Anyone that says it's great to be king, clearly never had this job in the first place."

There was an actual giggle at that, both it and the smile it produced surprisingly genuine on the young queen's face. "I quite agree. It's all so easy from the outside. Even _I_ had my misconceptions about this position, but they've been thoroughly squashed."

"Squashed?"

"Squashed."

"Thoroughly in fact?" Alistair felt some of the tension ease out of his shoulders, at his cheeky smirk.

"Thoroughly." The smile remained and Gwyneth eased herself up off her temporary perch, standing to walk for the door, but Alistair stopped her. Both of them instantly sobered and serious after his following words.

"She's really gone, you know. I've been telling myself that it's fine, we'll see Wynne again, but we _won't_." It was the subject they had both been avoiding, buried up to their necks in matters that helped stemmed the tide of loss, but in the late hours of the night, the absence of the mage was keen and wrenching.

Gwyneth paused at the door, eyes having been brightened in a rare good humor, darkening with the depressing ken of such thoughts. She turned back to Alistair, and shook her head, a noticeable hitch to her voice. "No, we won't." A deep breath, and then another. "She was a nosey old bitty, and I remember thinking that I really hated her at times . . . but then . . ."

Wynne's words were there in memory, as clearly as if the mage herself were standing in the room, reciting them once again.

'_You can agonize about how you should've stayed with your family, saved them from Howe's intentions, or you can imagine that you weren't there because you had to be elsewhere. You were chosen; you survived the Joining when others did not. Perhaps it was meant to be_. _Sometimes it gives me comfort to think that everything will end up the way it's suppose to, that it will be alright. _'

"Then I remember, that Wynne is an amazing woman, and she had moments where she just knew what to say and how to say it. Sometimes, her words were the _only_ thing that kept me going. I should've told her that, I should've _said_ something, so that she would know, but I never did, I never tell _anyone_ that they're important to me, because it's easier to pretend they aren't . . ."

"Gwyneth, it's alright, I'm sure she knows anyway." Alistair moved towards the queen, almost feeling her imminent sorrow make a line across his own heart, sensing that if he didn't say anything, she'd start to cry. He'd always been at a loss on what to do when _that_ happened.

"No, no it _isn't_ alright. I promised her that I'd take her words under advisement, but I haven't and I don't know that I ever would've, except . . ." She bit her lip, feeling nothing like a queen, and ever so much like the spoiled noblewoman that she'd been accused of being more than once. "Wynne is gone, and you're right, we can tell ourselves that we will see her again, that somehow she'll be there, no matter what, but she _won't_. We confided in her, at least I know _I_ did, more than I probably should've. I _depended_ on her advice, and that has left with her. All that remains are the memories of words already passed, and without her to make them clear and keep them fresh, I feel like I have to act on them. I _have_ to, or I'll forget." The tears did come then, falling freely and stinging a salty trail down Gwyneth's pale cheeks. Even at the look of worry on Alistair's face, they didn't stop, his concern only making the queen's guilt worse, and the wet drops fell harder.

She was babbling, and Alistair felt confused and wary at the same time, but once she started crying he was undone and he took several steps towards her until he could touch her, hands falling to shaking shoulders. "Gwyneth, oh please don't cry, I can't stand it when you're crying, it makes me hurt right along with you." Even as he spoke the words, he knew them to be true. No matter how much of a bitch she could be, Gwyneth was human, she felt joy and sorrow the same as any other person could, but it was saddening to realize that a woman like her was no different than him when it came to such things. What was worse, is that Alistair could do nothing to prevent it, to stop those tears, not with Gwyneth, or Leliana or anyone. All his strength left him helpless, and that was perhaps the very worst of it.

Silver eyes were bright with the wetness of overwhelming emotion, and though rarely ashamed of her tears, Gwyneth felt overexposed and frightened and she hated herself for it. She didn't think she could be honest with him, even in trying it was physically painful, as if the queen had to wrench that honesty through her ribcage. "Don't try to comfort me, please don't, I need to say this, for Wynne. I promised, and . . ." Anger came right up her throat, as Gwyneth used that emotion to cover up her melancholy. The ire was easier, it protected her far more than tears ever would. "I don't want to be your wife, don't you see that? I hate it, I _hate_ it!"

Alistair backed away from her, as if stung, the desire to comfort her all but gone.

Gwyneth was far from done, her eyes almost manic. "As much as I want to be queen, everyday that I have to try and make this marriage work is one more day where I can't be myself. Wynne wanted . . . _wants_ . . . me to find a way, but I _can't_. You were my friend, and I cared about you, despite everything, and then _this_ happened. All this bullshit!" She waved her arms about, indicating the study and the whole of the palace around it.

"Now, that Wynne is gone, it's just you and I, all over again, and I'm stuck, but worse than that, I am at your mercy. You are in love with a bard that is probably now half a world away and here I am, the not-so-conciliatory prize and it vexes me beyond imagining! Why should _I_ be _anyone's_ second choice? Me! A _Cousland_, a brilliant, beautiful, desirable, intelligent Cousland. I could've had anyone, _anyone_! Instead I have _you_, except I don't, you aren't mine anymore than I am yours . . . and . . . you can just leave me for any other noblewoman that might take your fancy. Let's be honest, you wouldn't want to have an heir with me even if that _was_ likely, and there is little to keep you tethered to me, little to prevent you from leaving me." The deep redness of Gwyneth's hair was matched only by the bursts of emotional coloring on her cheeks, her frame shaking with the force of everything, a verbal expulsion, an emptying out that left her feeling drained and tired. "I tried, I _really_ tried, the other night I gave you everything I had in me to give, but it isn't enough and . . . "

"It was all a lie, more games, wasn't it? You were just playing me. I begged you to tell me it wasn't a game, that you meant it, and you lied to my face. You just lay there and took it and pretended to enjoy it." Alistair's voice was low and dangerous, his fists clenched.

"No! No, that part wasn't . . . I _did_ enjoy it." Gwyneth put her hands out, as if trying to push back that insinuation. "I _did_ mean it, but what led up to it . . . I read a letter from Empress Celene to Cailan and it seemed to suggest a . . . marriage between the two. After all that I thought I was to him, he could've just set me aside."

Alistair flinched, not wanting to hear about how _his_ wife felt about his _dead_ brother, but he listened. Past the place where he was hurt, where he knew that some of what Gwyneth said was truth, on par with how he felt, was something inside him that had to let her finish. He wanted to know where it all led, even if he dreaded that destination.

"And if _he_ could put me aside, though he seemed to care for me greatly, then what might _you_ do? You, he who doesn't care for me, doesn't desire me."

The king laughed, a brittle humorless sound. "The letter from Celene, that's why you were questioning me. Ahh, I'm such an idiot. I knew you were up to something, I suspected it anyway. I'm not so naive as people think, and you aren't as good at hiding your intent as _you_ think, at least not from me. But maybe I wanted to believe you, just maybe I wanted to believe that you . . . that you wanted me, just that once, without any agenda."

"I _did_ . . . I _do_!" There were red streaks down Gwyneth's face, made more obvious for the increased paleness of her desperation.

"I'm suppose to believe you now? No, I don't think so, but you're right, _My Queen_, it's been a long day, and it's time I went to bed." He pushed past her, and shrugged her off as she went to reach for his sleeve. "I'll be sleeping in one of the guest bedrooms tonight I think."

"No, you can't! What will that _look_ like? People will gossip that we're having difficulties and then what?" Gwyneth looked at her husband, agog.

"I could give a damn." He opened the door slowly as if he had to struggle not to wrench it off its hinges. Alistair sent a glance over his shoulder at the shocked and silenced young woman behind him. "Just so we're both being honest with each other, I would _never_ leave you for the empress or anyone else and I never will. Unlike _you_, when I make vows and promises, I _mean_ them. So, I guess we're _both_ stuck."

The king shut the door behind him, the sound of his heavy footfalls echoing back into the cluttered study. Gwyneth listened for a moment, until she couldn't hear anything. With a strangled noise she crumpled in on herself, falling down on her knees to the floor. She wrapped her arms around her legs and cried into the folds of her pretty gown, the fabric turning dark with her tears.


	27. Chapter 27: Sweet Dreams

**Disclaimer:** _"Dragon Age: Origins" and all its expansions and additional content is the property of Bioware and EA Games. Large portions of written content within the game, as well as Dragon's Age: The Stolen Throne, and Dragon's Age: Calling, are the creation of David Gaider. Original scenarios and characters are used under the creative license of the writer, ItalianEmpress1985. No profit is being made and the following story is for entertainment purposes only._

* * *

**Words From The Author: **_This chapter has a bit more mature content in it than previous chapters. Specifically the last two sections. So be wary, and though the story remains at a 'Mature' rating (so it should be read with discretion anyway) I'm going to put an extra 'M' and 'NSFW' rating on this one. (Not Safe for Work) I don't want anyone to get into trouble with the bossman (or woman) over some simple fan fiction._

_Just a note, but in case it comes up and to avoid questions in reviews, 'aid' and 'aide' can mean the same thing, and though it may seem minor, I actually debated with myself over which one to use. In the end 'aide' won because it sounded more Old English._

_Also, I'm not forgetting Oghren or Shale in the party, in the section you'll see later, at that point they hadn't 'acquired' Oghren and I never played the Stone Prisoner, so I haven't included Shale._

_Though I'm sure most of you guessed it already, if sections in italics are dated then they are flashbacks, dreams are not dated unless it's the actual date for that whole chapter. Though there is always the chance that I won't italicize and get sneaky, leaving you to wonder until you've finished the section. ;)_

_Thank you for stopping in. Watch out for low flying dragons!_

* * *

_**Chapter Twenty Seven:**_

_**Sweet Dreams**_

* * *

_Some of them want to use you._

_Some of them want to get used by you._

_Some of them want to abuse you._

_Some of them want to be abused._

_Sweet dreams are made of these._

_Who am I to disagree?_

_Everybody's looking for something._

_- __Eurythmics_

* * *

January 12'th, 9:31, Dragon Age

_**T**__he wind whipped up the crags of the southern Frostback Mountains, the village of Haven so lost in the mountain's fog that the group could no longer see it. Though Alistair had no wish to look down, as he wrapped the cowl of his cloak tighter against his face. The climb to the ruins Brother Genitivi had sent them towards, as Gwyneth had left him to recover, was not an enjoyable trek. January was a cold bitch of a month, and even worse at higher elevations. Not even the fine leather boots Alistair had procured from Redcliffe Castle kept the cold out, the hammered scale plates that adorned them sending a chill right through his heavy socks._

_"I can't feel my fingers!" Gwyneth managed to get between her chattering teeth, tucking her gloved hands under arm pits, the hilts of her twin blades sticking up inside her cloak and making the outline of her shoulders look misshapen and bony. She glared at Alistair from under her cowl, sharp silver eyes colder than any icy wind. "And don't you dare tell me to s-s-suck it up!" She snarled, clamping her jaw closed._

_Leliana was up at the head of group, the devout Andrastian not to be persuaded from seeing the ashes of the holy Andraste, checking the path for any traps that the cultists may have set up. Alistair watched her work, smiling despite the chill. Out of all their group, she seemed to have the most resilience for the cold, likely brought on by the bard's excitement for what would lay at the end of their trek._

_Wynne and Morrigan walked side by side, the most peace that there had been between them since the archmage had joined with the rest of Gwyneth's mixed bag. Though that was probably because they were too cold to care about who they walked hip by hip with. Zevran and Sten, looking ridiculously tall next to the Antivan elf, made up the middle, the former glancing back at his hitherto protégé to see how she was faring._

_Alistair bristled at that, still most unhappy that Gwyneth had allowed Zevran to remain after he tried to kill them. Hired or no, he was still an assassin. What made it worse is that the Antivan Crow was training Gwyneth in her sword craft, and though Alistair could appreciate that it meant the younger Warden wasn't entirely incompetent with her weapons anymore, it still sat ill with him. He glared up ahead of the path, where he and Gwyneth took up the rear, but Zevran appeared not to notice, murmuring something to Sten, who was content to ignore him._

_The redhead beside Alistair grinned at that brief spot of attention._

_"Ugh! Don't tell me you fell for those smarmy lines he's always tossing out. Y-y-you're better than that." The tall blonde Warden rolled his eyes at that, feeling as disgusted as he sounded. Though he too was not immune to chattering teeth._

_"Don't be . . ." A shriek of icy wind stole Gwyneth's breath away and she paused. "Don't be ridiculous." She shivered and seemed to shrink and shrivel into her cloak and armor, the leather creaking with the cold._

_Alistair sidled up to her, wrapping an arm across her shoulders in instinct, to lend her some of his waning body heat. "Here, get closer."_

_She eyed him dubiously but did as he requested. "Why are you being so nice all of sudden?"_

_"Because, even if you don't want to admit it, we're friends, Gwyn. Friends, they look after each other." Alistair could almost feel the smile in her voice._

_"Well I suppose, in all likelihood we could freeze to death up here, and so saying . . . so saying I s-s-should admit it." Even through chattering teeth, she sounded decisive._

_"Admit what now?" His voice could be lower now that their heads were together for the warmth._

_"That you're my friend. Odd as that is."_

* * *

June 1'st, 9:31 Dragon Age

The rich masculinity of the royal bedchamber had never felt quite so overwhelming to the young queen. She half entertained the thought of doing as her 'dear' husband had done, and temporarily take one of the guest bedrooms as her own, but that thought died aborning soon after it was entertained. Gwyneth was the queen of Ferelden, _she wouldn't be intimidated out of her _own_ bedroom_! So, she stayed, readying to sleep alone in the large bed for the first night since she was wed.

She didn't know exactly how long she had stayed in the study, prostrate with the shock of her utter failure, crying harder than she had indulged in for quite some time. It was past midnight, it had to be. _Frustration? Yes! Self-doubt? Yes! Those were the causes. _Gwyneth refused to admit it was anything else, _and if Alistair thought so, he could just go and fuck himself with his own scepter for all she cared_! _Yes, that's right!_ The vicious foul-mouthed thoughts swirling like venom in her mind couldn't conceal the fact that she was melancholic, because despite her self-assurances, Alistair _had_ been her friend . . . once. What they were _now_, however, was very far from that sort of kinship, and the queen told herself that it was for the best, offering her a clear head going into matters of politics. Though, she'd be a liar indeed if she couldn't even admit to her own conscience that she had made decisions out of some bias with others.

Siofra Tabris remained her Lady in Waiting for a variety of reasons, not the least being her resourcefulness. The elfess was adept at procuring whatever the queen might require. From pig's blood to create the appearance of lost virginity on the bed sheets, to black lotus in the dead of night.

Gwyneth smiled as she rolled the small sachet about in one palm, the dark leaves crinkling within their delicate prison.

However, the reason that had truly kept Siofra in her position, was merely that the queen had a fondness for her. A fondness that allowed Gwyneth ease enough to offer her disappointing personal servant a chance to rectify that moment of dereliction. Though she couldn't deny the devious thrill at the idea that Siofra would suffer some humiliation, having to deliver meals to those she implicated, because then she might know how her employer had felt in that hall, presented with a _seamstres_s as her diplomatic aide.

She sighed, closing in towards the fireplace mantle, and the two carved wooden tables and overstuffed chairs sat there on the woven rug before the hearth, unlit for the evening. There was a rustle of the queen's nightgown, the lengthy fabric pressing against the rich plush of the seat. Noble napped on the rug, and Gwyneth smiled down at him as his legs kicked in the back, lost to dreaming. _Perhaps not _so_ alone_.

Her gaze drifted to the wine bottle sat beside her, and Gwyneth reached for it, pouring herself a glass, even as she opened the sachet of lotus leaves and crinkled them, the dusky powdered bits falling into the dark red Tevinter vintage. It would calm her down and ease the tension from her limbs, something she needed badly. With a deep breath, she smiled to herself. "Bottoms up then, Gwyny-Gwyn."

Full of flavor and a trace amount of bitterness from the lotus, the wine went down smoothly, coating the imbiber's throat as it settled into Gwyneth stomach. She took another sip, much longer than the other and slowly began to feel the mix of fermented grapes and imported black lotus working its magic. Her long frame seemed to sink into the chair, relaxed and languid in it as if she were floating in the water without getting wet.

Another sip and her melancholy was being chipped away by the ebb and tide of the potent Nevarran drug, whispering consoling nothings to her psyche. She remained aware of the room, and of her mabari, but it seemed that the world had fallen away. A hand played at her collarbone, fingers tapping against it, until their tips ran across the chain of Cailan's amulet.

Gwyneth continued to wear it, even as she believed Cailan would've abandoned her for favor of another. Even as that belief grated and hurt, she couldn't let him go. The weight of the dead not helped by the constant reminder the queen could not bear to remove from her neck.

She poured another glass of wine as the redhead emptied the first, taking more lotus, and dropping the crushed leaves in, one at a time. '_He loved me_.' One fell into the glass, the black disintegrating into the red. '_He loved me not_.' Another followed the first, and Gwyneth felt hot tears slide down her cheeks, her chest constricting with grief. She hiccupped with her melancholy, and made another attempt to drown it out with a long sip of that entrancing liquid.

"_I'll be fine, and when I come back . . . I . . . there is something I must ask you."_

"_Why not ask me now?"_

"_I want the timing to be right, I want it to be a happy moment."_

There is a snarl from Gwyneth at that memory, now that is no longer so certain the question would've been a proposal. "Shut up." She cautions to those memories, too whispered to be an order.

"_Ferelden could be grand, oh how grand it could be Gwyneth! Celene believes there is much potential here."_

"I said shut up!" The queen stood from her chair, throwing the wine glass and hearing it shatter, though she wasn't aware of what direction it had gone. Noble raised his head, yipping in surprise, before those dark brown eyes looked at his mistress with concern. "Oh Noble, oh my sweetheart. I'm sorry!" Gwyneth fell to her knees beside the mabari, not even the drug or the wine able to stop her crying once it's started. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry!" She cradles the royal hound, her constant companion when others would have left her. The queen isn't sure that it's only to Noble that she apologizes, but the litany continues, until she is sobbing into the mabari's chestnut fur.

_"But you wish you had married _him_ instead?" _

_"Yes." Gwyn sniffed, voice raw in her grief. "Yes I _do _wish that . . . Don't you?"_

_"No, Gwyn, I don't wish that." Alistair's own voice is heavy with the stinging onset of sadness._

"No." Gwyneth echoes into the space of the royal bedchamber, surprised that no one has come to check on her after all the noise she must have made with that glass. Her servants remain true and leave her to the solitude she had demanded of them, however. "No?" She asks of the room that is empty, save herself and Noble. "Why _don't_ you wish that?" There is an answer in memory.

_"_You_ Gwyn, and you're all I have left. You want me to say that I wish you'd gotten everything you wanted, that _I_ did too? Maybe, but then, we wouldn't know each other, we wouldn't be friends, and I've lost enough already. Please don't break away from now, I need you."_

Alistair _had_ been needy then, requiring something of her that Gwyneth was not at all sure she could give, but tonight had been different. The young king had been angry, _hatefully_ angry, and yet for all that he _still_ wouldn't leave her.

_"Just so we're both being honest with each other, I would _never_ leave you for the empress or anyone else and I never will. Unlike _you_, when I make vows and promises, I _mean_ them. So, I guess we're _both_ stuck."_

Cailan had seemed to bear a great affection for Gwyneth, something that should've kept him at her side if things had progressed beyond Ostagar. Yet it seemed all too likely that he wouldn't have been there forever. Alistair often disliked Gwyneth, with her feeling the same, and yet when they _had_ become friends, it was genuine. Even now that the friendship had died for the dominance of their all consuming duty, he remained loyal.

Gwyneth didn't know what to do with that revelation. It made no sense, and she had always been able to piece things together eventually, to compartmentalize them and place them in entirely understandable categories. Alistair couldn't be so categorized or understood, it seemed. Gwyneth Cousland had known people, seen who they were even as they tried to hide it, but Gwyneth _Theirin_ couldn't even manage to understand her own _husband_.

She gripped Cailan's amulet until the golden dragon wings pierced the skin of her palm, the blood beginning to collect and seep through her clenched fingers. Gwyneth willed the black lotus to start working, wishing for her sadness and confusion to just disappear. Ever so slowly, they _did_ leave and she relaxed against Noble's side, hearing nothing but the slow drumbeats of her own heart. That relaxation continued, urging her into a promising pool of unconsciousness and Gwyneth gladly let herself float in those dark waters.

* * *

_She sighs into him, her lithe body relaxing, curves sliding against his muscles, scintillating and moving him to desire. Alistair rolled to one side, taking a lock of that copper hair, and rubbing it between his fingers as Leliana slept, her eyes moving under her lids of their own accord, perhaps dreaming. She whimpered in her sleep, and Alistair stroked his fingers across one cheek._

_"Just sleep, my love, you're safe now." He murmured and she must have heard him, because she made a low mewling noise as she clung to him._

_"I am, aren't I?" Leliana slowly cracked one eye open, that crystalline blue seeking her lover out in the dimness of the tent, the moon the only light as it lent that blue haze to the world. She smiled and kissed the tip of the Grey Warden's nose. Snuggling against him, she listened to where his heart beat steady and fast beneath his ribs. "I thought the Maker was leading me to my destiny, but I never imagined it would've led me to someone like you."_

_"Maybe . . . maybe destiny isn't always something to be afraid of." Alistair contemplated, even as his mind took him into an entirely different direction, lust stirring beneath his waist at Leliana's proximity. Her natural fragrance, and the light wisps of Andraste's Grace wafted across to him and he breathed deep._

_The bard propped herself up on one elbow, adjusting the blanket when it slipped off her shoulders. "You are afraid for what the morrow brings, no? Have faith, mon amour, and if you can't, remember that you will always have _mine_. Maybe that will help."_

_He smiled, broad and genuine. Then he sobered. "I've never been to a Landsmeet in my life, I'm sure Eamon has something planned, but until we get to Denerim, all I can do is worry."_

_"Whatever happens, Alistair, remember always that you are a great man, that you will be a great _king_, and that I love you. Forever." Leliana moved to rise over him, running fingers through his short, dark blonde hair. "Will you promise me that, mon amour? Can you promise me the same?"_

_He kissed her, fervent as his hands found her hips, delighting in how she wiggled them in anticipation. The swelling of his manhood was matched only by the swelling in his heart. "Forever, Leliana, forever and always." He moved to capture her lips again, but suddenly it wasn't that lovely Orlesian face he saw, but one belonging to a lovely Fereldish redhead. Alistair reared back as if bitten._

_"What? What's wrong?" Leliana's voice came husky with desire, and cautious in confusion._

_'_One might think I've infected you_.' Her voice came unbidden to his memory, a memory Alistair knew he shouldn't have._

_"Gwyneth!" He nearly shouted in surprise and anger._

_Leliana turned about, the blanket falling about her waist. "Gwyneth? Is she awake already?" The bard could see no silhouettes outside the tent she shared with Alistair._

_"No, no, I'm sorry. I was just remembering a bad dream I had." He tried to shake her image from his mind, unsure of why it was there at all. "Let's put bad dreams behind us." With a grin he reached for Leliana, as she settled atop him. She was the one to take control and he welcomed that, still unsure of himself despite the couple's explorations of each other. Leliana always knew what positions would please them both, and the love they felt for one another only made it that much more pleasant._

Alistair is kneeling in front of her, and he grabs her hips as he positions Gwyn where he wants her. He's almost ashamed at how aroused he is, hard and pulsing painfully.

_He sits up again, rubbing his hand across his face as if trying to banish the image, but though it disappears, that horrible desire it creates does not. Alistair reminds himself that he loves Leliana, and it's more than sex with her, it's making love, _true_ intimacy shared between two people. He should want _that, _not the sin that a coupling with Gwyneth would create. Where he is less a man, and more a hungry wolf, taking the spoils of a conquering hunt._

_Rich brown eyes close tightly as he tries to relish in the feeling of the beautiful bard that has slid onto him, taking pleasure within her slick and grasping confines. Their muscles work together, a concert of their bodies to match the melody of their minds. Every ounce of love in his heart for that amazing woman pulses in time with the lust he feels, wanting to preserve every memory of their moments together._

When the queen starts working with him, Alistair can feel the change and he moans, driving into her harder and harder. She's making noises he's never heard before, but he doesn't kiss her to silence them, because they drive him to insanity, his arousal like an uncontrollable beast and he's nearing the breaking point.

_Alistair repeats Leliana's name, reminding himself that it is _her_, he wants, not Gwyneth. _

_He can recall how long her legs are, the look of surprise and fear when he had his queen pressed against the door, a hand against her throat. He can remember how powerful and full of lust he was at finally being the one in control. Her manicured nails had dug furrows into his back, the pain bringing him disturbingly closer to climax. Banishing the other woman from his mind proves difficult, even as Leliana moans his name, taking her breasts in her hands and tossing her head back as she rocked above him._

_A tightness in his abdomen signals his rising peak of desire, and when that pleasurable dam bursts open, Alistair grabs Leliana's hips and throws her down beneath him. Her shock at his dominance makes him moan as he thrusts deeply inside her, spilling his seed with a force that almost steals his consciousness away. He growls her name into the tent. "Gwyneth!"_

The king tossed in the wide bed, waking up to panic for a few moments, confused about where he is, until he realized he slept in a guest bedroom for the night. His thighs felt damp, and as Alistair drew the sheet back, he discovered that his desire had escaped the confines of dreaming. With a huff of frustration, he ran a hand through his lengthening hair, free of his customary braids at the side. Tossing the bed sheets aside, the king strode over to the mirror, wanting to look at his reflection and remind himself of reality. The face that greeted him only seemed to make him angrier, however.

For all that he had changed, he was still weak, because he wasn't careful and Gwyneth had gotten under his skin. She'd infected him without him realizing it, until it was too late. Alistair knew he should never want for a viper like her, but he did all the same, still pulsing with need inside his night breeches. She used her wiles as a weapon, far more talented with them than she ever could be with the Thorns of Dead Gods. Alistair had been aware of that when he agreed to the marriage, he'd seen how she used them to her advantage before, but Gwyneth had been his friend once. He never imagined she would use such a weapon against _him_, but he should've and because he hadn't seen it coming, she'd gotten to him.

"You poisoned me." He whispered to Gwyneth's shadow, her smirking face there behind his eyes. It was true, and she could never know, he would never tell her the power she had over him. For his own sake, he couldn't.

* * *

_The fireplace had been lit, the warmth waking Gwyneth as she moved her head, groggy from wine, lotus and the weariness of her own emotions. Her head rested against the padded wing of the chair she sat in. She seemed to think that she had been laying on the floor with Noble, but as the queen fully came to, there was no sign of the mabari. Limbs were stretched out, and she finally managed to make herself leave the comfort of the overstuffed chair. "Mmm . . . Noble? My baby, where are you?"_

_Eerie silence greeted her, a wind kicking up and making the embers pop in the hearth. Gwyneth turned toward the source to find the balcony doors wide open. She shook her head in irritation. _'Unreliable servants, utterly unreliable.' _If there was a larger hiring pool, she would've taken advantage of it. Walking over to the doors, she took a moment to peer over the balcony, and looked up at the sky. The moon was obscured behind thick cloud cover, creating a spectral dark blue glow. She leaned against the rail, as was her wont, to observe Alistair's kingdom, such as was visible. "If you people knew what we sacrificed for you . . ." the queen trailed off, a bitterness that superseded her ingrained sense of duty._

_"If they knew, think you, that they would care at all? What was it that you told your boy king once? _'People are just out for themselves, Alistair, you should learn that.'_" His voice mocked her and Gwyneth turned around sharply in shock._

_"You!"_

_Morgreth Urthemiel smiled, for once his visage not obscured or made mysterious by the landscape of dreaming. "Indeed, it is I." His hair was longer, every strand in an intricate braid, ending in sharp metal caps. Still those eyes burned golden, an inhuman glimmer of bright white reflecting across the irises as the 'man' moved towards the queen. He reached a hand out, fingers tipped by claws instead of nails_.

_"Keep back! This is just another dream, and I don't want to see you anymore!" Gwyneth pressed her back against the balustrade columns, but there was nowhere to go unless she jumped over the railing. "I _never_ did!"_

_"_Still_ you recoil from me? Have you not yet realized that I am no more a dream than your precious pathetic Cailan, or your insipid witch, no more a dream than the mortal boy you married? Why do you continue to deny me as only your nocturnal imaginings? I know you are intelligent, my queen. There must be a part of you that knows we stand within reality here." He reached for her again, but she turned her head away and pressed her eyes shut tightly. Morgreth frowned, a frighteningly human expression on his otherwise godlike face. "This accomplishes nothing, and you are failing to honor your part of the bargain."_

_His essence darkened the room and Gwyneth shrunk in on herself to escape him, but there wasn't anywhere to go. "There was _no bargain _made! You . . . you intone that you are the archdemon reborn, and I killed . . . _we_ killed you! The 'bargain' was made with _Morrigan_, to free the old god's spirit! Born as a child, the archdemon's soul was to be destroyed!" The queen shouted, screamed her self assurance at the horribly beautiful man before her. "You cannot be here! You can't!"_

_"But I am, my lovely Gwyneth. Because of _you_." There were fangs inside his mouth as he grinned madly. "The bargain was made in your heart, even if the words weren't spoken. You didn't want to die, you didn't want your pet Warden to die, and so you entered a compact with your marsh witch to free me from my shell. It's understandable, even if it doesn't line up with the morals of your prancing 'chantry' I understand, more than any mortal, how much survival matters. I too, did not wish to die, to be lost forever. There is no harm in being selfish, and if there is . . . is it not worth it?" He purred, that ethereal breath tickling the queen's ear._

_When she didn't say anything, Morgreth continued. "You have my eternal gratitude for that freedom. The stupidity in thinking that there was some innocent, purile godling inside the archdemon's shell, that 'I' would be born as an actual child, is irrelevant." One claw caressed the queen's face as she chocked back on an anguished sob. "Do you hear yourself, my sweet? 'The bargain _was_ made, the archdemon's soul _was_ to be destroyed.' You have already accepted the truth in your subconscious, just admit it, and you will feel so much better."_

_He caressed her hair as she cried. "Weep not, my queen, for there is nothing to fear. I promise you. I wish only to keep the bargain, as your witch dies during my rebirth, soon to be upon us, the duty falls to me. Power for power, freedom for freedom. I will give you all that you seek, and all that I want, all that I need from you is life."_

_She wanted to scream for the guards, but this had to be a dream, and instead she willed it to fade away. It did not, and she was left face to face with the creature that had haunted her ever since her wedding night. "My life?"_

_"No, my pretty, witty Gwyn." He smiled even as she winced at the all too familiar title. "Not _your_ life, and you have already given me _my _life back, but sadly I shall not have all of my strength returned. The Maker stole that from me, as he took my children and turned them into the hideous creatures you call darkspawn!" Morgreth's eyes were shining hot and white in his anger, and then it dispersed to that eerie gold. "In order for that to happen, I need the very thing that your boy king shall require."_

_Silver eyes cracked open to meet with gold, wide and frightened of the answer. "What is that?"_

_"When you killed my shell on the roof of Fort Drakon, did you not feel me inside you? My essence pulsing there before the tainted blood was torn away? I was scrambling for any power I could maintain, I was not ready to be lost to shadow again, as I have said before. I tore every last bit of that dark tainted power from you and the other Warden, your mortal husband. It was not as if I intended to help you, and yet I did. That to me, suggests that you, how do the humans put it? You 'owe me one.'"_

_Gwyneth shook her head, biting her lower lip as Morgreth slid a hand up her hip. There was something about him, a terrible power, that though dark, was enthralling and enticing. The queen felt herself falling into the arousing storm of power he represented and tried to pull herself back. "I . . . I don't understand."_

_"Don't you?" He whispered conspiratorially. "Have you not wondered why there have been no dreams of darkspawn, why neither you or your king could hear them when they were near any longer?" That mad grin persisted. "I stole your tainted blood from you, and so too has your status as Grey Wardens been ended."_

_The queen's eyes went wide. "That isn't possible!"_

_"Isn't it? I would think so. Though, I must confess that your royal conception will _still_ be difficult, your body went through a great trauma up there on that roof . . . but I can help you, if you help _me_ in turn. Give me what I desire, my queen. Those are the terms of the bargain, made by our souls entwined."_

_That clawed hand found her center, and Gwyneth wanted to recoil, but she couldn't. She felt a horrible all consuming desire there, her body slick with it and when he touched her, she moaned even as she was disgusted with herself. It seemed to please him, to find her ready for his advances._

_"Yes, that's it. Give yourself to me, I know you want to. To feel what it is to be desired by a _god_." He whispered, teeth nipping at her neck. "Do you remember how my power felt, dancing across your skin, when I spoke to you in your dreams, even if you couldn't understand me then? Those days spent in a tent, alone, with only the face of an archdemon as your company . . . but you weren't always _repulsed_, were you?" His long fingers slid inside her, using a free arm to wrap around her waist._

_"Ah! I . . . no . . . I . . . why me?" She trembled with her lust, a sickening pit settling into her stomach, even as her fluids ran down her thighs._

_"For all that I took from you on that roof, I left you with a piece of my soul, just the smallest thing, but I require it to be whole, and there is only one way to get it. It's locked inside you, but if you could pass it to another body, a young body, new to the world, I could reclaim it." He picked her up, to set the queen on the edge of the balcony, nothing but open air at her back. Kneeling before her, he smiled as he gazed at the apex of her thighs before bringing her to his face, that forked tongue snaking out to press at the slick folds there. "Fruit born of your womb." Morgreth flicked at the hardened bud at the top of her entrance, grinning through his sharp teeth as she gave in to her desire, even as she knew it was wrong . . . so very wrong._

_Gwyneth bit her lip, drawing blood, her fingers digging into his shoulders, bucking as she felt his tongue move inside her. The pleasure was almost too intense to handle._

_Suddenly he stopped, looking up at her._

_"I need you to give me an heir, born of _your_ fragile humanity and _my_ great power. You must give me a _son_." Morgreth bit into her thigh and she screamed._

"No!" Gwyneth felt her revulsion, drawing her from her dark imaginings. _What was wrong with her? What kind of person would dream up something like that?_ Noble turned his head and barked at her, tilting his head in confusion. She lay on the rug beside him, the hearth dark and empty, the room quiet. "It was the lotus, that's all . . . I took too much." The queen said by way of explanation to her mabari and herself. As she tried to stand, she felt a stinging pain at her thigh, the skin feeling sticky.

A shiver of dread ran up her spine. "No, no, no, no, it _can't_ be! It was a _nightmare_!" As she frantically pulled up the fabric of her nightgown, the bright red of her blood stood out against her pale skin. Gwyneth ran a disbelieving hand there, wincing at the sharp sting. Unmistakable through the blood, were marks made by very sharp teeth. She covered her mouth with one palm to stifle her scream of revulsion and terror.

Suddenly, her disgust became so sour that she ran to the chamber pot, emptying her stomach into it, crying through the gagging. "Morrigan . . . what have we unleashed?" She crumpled down to the floor, Noble whining at his mistress' side, nudging her with his nose, trying to make her feel better even if he didn't know what was wrong.

Perhaps she was going mad, but Gwyneth didn't really think she was. It almost would've been better, because the alternative was too awful to imagine. She curled a fist and pressed it to her mouth, shaking her head as if to deny what she had just been told. "Alistair . . . forgive me."


	28. Chapter 28: Through the Woods

**Disclaimer:** _"Dragon Age: Origins" and all its expansions and additional content is the property of Bioware and EA Games. Large portions of written content within the game, as well as Dragon's Age: The Stolen Throne, and Dragon's Age: Calling, are the creation of David Gaider. Original scenarios and characters are used under the creative license of the writer, ItalianEmpress1985. No profit is being made and the following story is for entertainment purposes only_

**Words From The Author: **_More travel via horse and carts! ;) You'll see more of that in the story's travel sections as we go forward. I'm hardly an expert of the equine, so feel free to correct me if I make some really bad errors. However, I have done 'some' research on horse breeds, and types (not breeds) used more during the dark ages, enough to know the difference between a palfrey and a charger. But still, I'm in noob waters, so beware. ;)_

_Ser William's last name, brought out in this chapter, should be quite familiar to those that had interest in medieval duchies. Not that I'm insinuating there's any ACTUAL similarity, more just a shout out to one of the more famous noble names from our own dark ages. Just a note in case any of my readers goes 'hey! I know that name', you're right, you do. :D_

_Uvolla/Lusacan is mentioned as being a female deity in 'Awakening', but Wikipedia refers to the deity as a male (as it does ALL Old Gods). Knowing WikiPedia is sometimes wrong, and knowing the game info sometimes isn't consistent either, I'm going with Uvolla being female for now, breaks up the line of all her brothers. ;)_

**_Special Note:_**_ Our very own JaffaSnakes has created a lovely fanart for this story, I've put the link to it under 'Extras' in my profile, so please go check it out and leave her some comments if you're so willing. Thank you again Jaffa!_

_Hopefully this is a decent Christmas present. So saying, Happy Holidays to all of you and a Happy New Year! Maker willing ;), 2011 will be a good one._

_Thank you for stopping in. Watch out for low flying dragons!_

* * *

_**Chapter Twenty Eight:**_

_**Through the Woods**_

* * *

June 4'th, 9:31, Dragon Age

_**'T**__he . . . bloody . . . fucking . . . bannorn!' _Was the primary thought repeating a mantra in the king's head as he and his party traveled guardedly towards Amaranthine, a trip overdue that now would have to be rushed. As if there hadn't been enough worries, with a distressing lack of arls, teyrns and even lords, the bannorn was scrambling for pride of place. Perhaps some of them even thought to sneak under their nascent king's nose, and claim an abandoned arling or teyrnir for their own. Now the king himself had to personally take the matter in hand, not something the young man was terribly pleased about.

With a foulness of temper, matched by the persistent and droning rainstorms they'd rode into, Alistair glared ahead of him to the covered carriage where his wife was trying to get in a nap. Her nights resting hadn't been very fruitful, and though she _of course_ hadn't said anything, there were dark circles under her eyes that were still slightly visible under the cosmetics she used to cover them up. Gwyneth acted almost frightened of the _prospect_ of sleep. He didn't understand, but with her, that was nothing new and the king wasn't in any kind of mood to indulge her eccentricities, and moreover, he was far too busy.

Though it wasn't _all_ doom and gloom.

Early plans for the alienage wall, had blissfully at _least_ been started. The Carpenter's Association of Denerim offering ideas on the building stability of the homes lying close to the wall, and where to begin, had been immensely helpful. It was laid out that it would take awhile, but Alistair supposed that might be a good thing. As much as Gwyneth had made clear that big change was required, there was enough on both of their plates to keep them well occupied through into _next_ summer. Still, having a plan of action helped the young king to sort out the idea in his own mind far better, where instead of just a _dream_ of the wall coming down, he now had insight into what that would entail.

More to the point, there had been actual progression before the royal party's hasty departure. King Alistair had ordered licenses for the elves living within Denerim and removed some of the more restrictive and antiquated laws affecting such things. Thereby allowing those elves and dwarves alike entering Denerim to procure the same rights as the humans. Independent seeking of jobs and positions within the whole of the capital, and travel rights to and from the alienage beyond the exits to the city, without hindrance, or random guard checks without appropriate justification. The few nobles within the capital had pushed away from that, but the king had pushed right back, and he'd gotten his way in the end. It'd seemed a small thing, in comparison to the heap of issues he had to deal with, but it had large results, and Alistair hoped it would help ease the seemingly insurmountable interracial tension in the capital. Upon his return, he intended to make sure such a law was enacted in all the other cities, towns and holdings throughout Ferelden.

His only regret was that there hadn't been time enough to secure more guardsmen for the city's sectional gates, and Alistair hoped he didn't return to the Royal Palace only to have a full scale riot on his hands. Circumstantial trust for his adopted uncle, as he certainly couldn't call it a 'full' trust, kept him from refusing this trip, and duty made it even more important. The Steward of the Crown was to have another opportunity to prove his loyalty to the sovereigns and the people of Ferelden, and the competency of his skills of negotiation.

"Majesty, the hour grows late and I would rather we made camp before it gets too dark. That and . . ." Ser William, First Knight of Denerim paused, looking across the length of space that separated the two men and their equine mounts, his coated leather hood pulled in tight, as rain escaped through the trees to get at him. They'd pulled off the Pilgrim's Path, to take some of the smaller trade routes that wound through the Wending Wood. The rain was less tiresome there, blocked somewhat from the thick forest canopy of ancient pines, large oaks and spindly birches. The roads, despite being much thinner, were less of a muddy mess . . . though even those were getting that way.

Ghost stories of the area and other manners of rot kept most of the men from feeling comfortable about the change of route, but they'd obeyed the order, looking to the thick trees as if expecting spirits to come leaping at them. The queen herself, usually a woman that seemed to take little stock in fairytales, seemed unsettled. She barely even slept, and the first knight wondered if the king had bothered to notice, but _he_ had. The thought made him almost want to continue, his sympathies in kind with thoughts of his _own_ wife, and how he'd feel if _she_ were out with them as well. However, even if it meant getting away from the forest sooner, it wouldn't be any safer once night fell, not with their party run ragged. It certainly wasn't as if they'd be able to reach Vigil's Keep by even the next morning, let alone _that_ day.

The brunette knight shifted in the saddle, his dark brown palfrey beneath him fidgeting in kind, as if the animal could sympathize. William was well aware of the king's mood for the majority of the trip, and wasn't sure how well he would be received, but neither did he hold true with those rumors of having his head lopped off if he displeased the sovereign. _'Bunch of rubbish, that!' _He cleared his throat as King Alistair stared at him, looking perturbed and out of patience, though perhaps not entirely directed at Ser William. "We've been riding the road a little harder than necessary perhaps. I understand the haste that need be made, certainly, but . . . as your first knight, I have to say that . . . we need more rest than we've been getting. We can't continue at this pace." Wary, but certain of his opinion, William jutted out his aquiline jaw, watching the king with an intent pair of dark eyes.

Alistair glared, until he realized that the first amongst his knights, was right. He sighed, patting a hand against the wet neck of his dark gray mount. "Fine, fine." Up ahead and behind, the other knights he had brought with him were looking at the pair, tensed and waiting. "As you say, Ser Aquitaine. I suppose we could all use some rest . . ." He paused, pointing a gloved finger at the man opposite. "Only for tonight though, I can't afford to waste any more time."

"As you command, My King." William Aquitaine was a man that understood his duty, and made no more fuss as he bowed his head, and urged his palfrey forward, giving a call ahead to the others.

The king held back, grumbling under his breath as he brought his own palfrey near the two wagons they had brought with them, stopped now at Ser Aquitaine's shouted command. One for their supplies and the other for the queen and himself to sleep in. Though so far during their trip, he'd refrained, choosing instead to share a tent with Ser William. If any of the Knights of Denerim thought anything of it, they hadn't said a word.

With the droning rain, the waxed canvas over the wagon had begun to droop a little, and Alistair checked the ties, making sure they were secure. It was a servant's task, and if Gwyneth and he were speaking more than cursory words, she might remind him of that, but Alistair had never really cared about those things. Gwyneth _always_ had, except funnily enough, she had refused to bring her lady in waiting or any of the palace staff with her to see to her needs, taking to her own personal care. _Just like the old days, except it wasn't. _Being of practical mind when it came to that, he supposed his queen might simply have realized the hiring pool was small, and she didn't want to risk loosing good servants because they couldn't protect themselves. Alistair certainly wasn't going to share that thought with his knights, lest they think Queen Gwyneth had no faith in them to protect the party.

_'There has to be _something_ I can do!' _Rich brown eyes searched out the woods, and the sparse clearing that his knights were picking out for their encampment. The king's booted feet made deep impressions in the damp earth as he began to walk back to the knights, more than willing to assist, willing to do pretty much anything _except_ poke his head into the covered wagon where Gwyneth was resting. With a deep and wearied sigh, he had a moment of self realization and knew he was being childish. She had to be told they were stopping, and there was no real reason he couldn't do it. Except they'd barely spoken more than the most necessary words to one another since the night after Wynne's departure. _'But that's not a reason, now is it, Alistair?'_

He grimaced, drawing his cloak together in one hand as he reached for the tarp where it was split, gloved fingers moving aside the curtain within the small wagon. "Gwyn." His voice was gruff and unfeeling, exactly as he wanted it to sound, but when there was no response, the grumble that followed was much louder. "Gwyn-eth!"

She murmured unconsciously in the dim confines of the wagon, Noble stirring beside her, to swing his muscular canine head towards the now open tarp. He growled low in his throat, but his hackles weren't up, and as soon as he could make out Alistair's face he settled back down, nudging his long body closer to his mistress. Though the royal hound was no help at all in waking her up.

Alistair had a pang of guilt, where he didn't really want to wake her if she was finally getting some sleep. Then he remembered why they were barely speaking and any tender feelings he may have had dispersed if not disappeared. He clambered into the wagon, taking his wet cloak off in one corner, having at least enough consideration to not want to get the blankets damp. With awkward half crouched, half crawling movements, he finally was next to Gwyneth, looking down at her, cheek pressed into the pillows, one hand clenched around the amulet at her neck and the other tucked beneath her head. The king reached out to shake one shoulder. "Come on now, get up. Gwyneth!"

She murmured, shifting under the blankets, a name escaped her lips that Alistair couldn't quite make out. With a sudden jarring movement, she screamed, and yanked one of her short swords from where it had been lain, hidden beneath both pillows. Alistair barely had time to be surprised as she was sitting up, abject horror reflected in her eyes, the sharp tip of the weaving Thorn of Dead Gods pointed just beneath the king's jaw.

Noble had been set to barking, confused himself as to what was going on, sidling closer to Gwyneth even as he looked at his mistress and whined.

"Get away from me!" Gwyneth screamed at the shocked king, the tip of her sword wobbling perilously as her hand shook in her fear.

Alistair didn't dare move, watching as recognition slowly came into her over bright eyes.

"It's . . . it's _you_." She sighed, dropping the short sword on the floorboards of the wagon, running a hand across her face and rubbing her eyes.

There was the sound of running men outside, and heaving breath. "Majesty! We heard screaming! What's happened?" One of the knights queried.

"We're both fine, it's alright. Go back to your duties." Alistair returned quickly, before they looked inside.

"Yes Majesty."

Silence filled the wagon, but for Gwyneth's breathing as she calmed down, and the sound of the knights readying a campsite for the evening, outside. Alistair sat back on his haunches and waited as his queen gathered herself back together from whatever had frightened her so badly.

"I'm sorry, I was . . . I've been having nightmares." She wouldn't look at him, letting go of Cailan's amulet to play with her dark red ringlets, a nervous habit from her childhood. Eyes instead straying down to Noble, as her other free hand rubbed his head between his ears.

Convinced that everything was fine, the mabari sat up and stretched, pushing aside the tarp with his broad shoulders as he bounded out of the wagon. Probably hoping to get something to eat from the knights, now that everyone seemed like they were up and about.

Gwyneth watched her faithful canine, reaching to close the flap behind him to protect herself from the drizzle, and yet still not looking at her husband. Her hands smoothed the blankets around her, though she made no move to get up.

"Must be _some_ nightmares, for you to go to bed armed." Alistair found his voice again, but it seemed dry. She said nothing to that, instead knotting the blankets with her fingers, almost as if she were shy or embarrassed, but Alistair could never imagine _Gwyneth_ acting like that. Though he recalled moments of her virginal shyness before their consummation ever happened, but _those_ moments seemed a lifetime ago. Back when Gwyneth treated him like a human.

He cleared his throat, feeling fairly awkward himself, now that her reaction had bled some of the anger out of him. Without his anger to protect him, he felt strangely overexposed, even for the dim privacy of the covered wagon. "You shouldn't do that you know, leaving a sword underneath your head. You could hurt yourself."

Gwyneth only nodded, leaving her husband to fill the silence.

"Anyway, we're stopping for the night. Everyone needs some rest before we continue on to Amaranthine in the morning. I just wanted to let you know."

"We're stopping . . . _here_?"

"Gwyneth, we won't be able to clear the Wending Wood tonight or tomorrow morning, so where _else_ would you have us stop?" And with that, the irritation was slowly coming back and shielding him from her.

"Yes, of course, I just . . . this forest is _so_ . . ." She paused, wrapping her arms around herself. "But you're right." A slow smile, full of unhappiness and resignation. "Of course. Well then, I suppose I better be getting up. I've slept enough."

Alistair gave her a short nod, stopping as he began to rise, mouth opening as if he wanted to say something. Whatever it was, the urge to speak it passed and he simply left, grabbing his wet cloak on the way out. Limbs were stretched, and Gwyneth _felt_ Alistair get up and leave the wagon without another word, far more than she could've _seen_ him.

One hand reached across the lonely space and her fingers caressed the blade of one of her short swords. She would take his advice, tonight she would sleep with _both_ of them beside her, not hidden beneath her pillows where it probably _was_ dangerous, but in plain view of anyone or _anything_ that tried to catch her unawares. Let them know that she was a Cousland to the last, and she wouldn't be taken so easily. Silver eyes watered, Gwyneth's lip shaking beneath them, that fear and revulsion coming up again to betray her bravado, biting at her ribcage where those weaknesses lay in wait. _'It was a dream, it was a dream, it was a dream.' _The young queen told herself that again and again, even as she gathered her clothes and boots in that dim coach.

As she pulled her traveling breeches on, her dragging fingers passed by the mark still left by the bite to her thigh, now healing, but a dark splotch remaining. Gwyneth swallowed, closing her eyes shut tightly. _'Only a dream.' _Outside the Wending Wood held her and all their party in its confines, caressed her with the whispering of those haunted trees, their limbs spindly and tall . . . like the outstretched fingers of an old god.

* * *

The moon was a half-lit thing, and the light it offered had to fight for supremacy with the shadows of the army of trees, most of them thick pines. King Alistair enjoyed their scent, even if he did find their appearance a little unsettling in the wane light from above. At least the rain had died down for a time, only a slight mist remaining, but the ground was still damp, and the feeling to air was heavy and uncomfortable.

Camp had been set for the night, though the confined space that was available made it look almost disorderly. The tall king leaned back into the large wheel of one of the wagons, his cloak beneath him and wadded up to protect his backside from the rocky forest floor, and watched the scant activity. William's reasons for rest were sound ones, as most of their company did just that. They had set themselves up on watch shifts, entertaining one another with stories, mostly scary ones. Alistair laughed at that, knowing the boyish excitement for a good ghost story, that never quite faded when boys became men. It certainly hadn't with _him_. The drawback, being of course, that it kept you tensed up for your own turn at the watch.

A book lay in his lap, more than enough light from the nearby campfire, but he hadn't started it yet. It hardly looked like easy reading anyway. 'The Ideation of Aristocracy From the Observations of the Colloquial Man.' by a Theobald Wetherby, which more or less would amount to overly world contemplations from an educated noble servant, about the snobs he'd worked for, most likely. Alistair was hoping to gain some insight into how his servants saw him, and what might be the cause of some of them quite obviously appearing afraid of him. For now, however, the young leader of Ferelden found himself far more content to enjoy the full bodied stories of beings _without_ bodies that drifted over to him from the campfire.

"Saw a bunch of bluebells, whole field of them, when I was out scouting the perimeter. I thought there was a ghost story about them, but I can't seem to remember."

"Why bring it up then? Amstead, you're a daft stick sometimes!"

"Yeah? You tell the next one then, Boughton! You slack jawed son of a whore!"

"Don't talk about his mother like that, she was as fine a bird as I ever saw, the last time I laid with her."

"Last female _you_ were in bed with was that ugly hound of yours."

A round of good natured laughter followed the bawdy chatter amongst the men, where they had become comfortable enough to do so. Alistair would've joined them, something familiar and warming in the type of camaraderie they represented. Not just fellow knights, but brothers. The king closed his eyes, the orange glow keeping the darkness of the closed lids at bay as his mind wandered to times that felt so long ago, though it wasn't even a full year. Memories of drinking games, of his fellow Wardens gathered together, the strange delight in finding that Duncan had been a young idiot once, just like the lot of them. It removed the expectation that Alistair had to be perfect. He'd only wanted to be there, to have that family, where he didn't have to be the bastard son of the king, or an unwanted boy sent to the stables, or a Templar that never made it to their full rank. He could just be Alistair, and that was alright. He could have brothers without any strings attached.

But those times were gone, and he was king, and so, he didn't go join his knights. Instead choosing to enjoy that sense of familiarity from a safe distance. From his spot they wouldn't look at him, waiting for a command, they'd just enjoy themselves and relax and that's what Alistair wanted.

"Bluebells was it?" The only female voice amongst them stood out more clearly for its sole tenor.

"Oh! Majesty!" Laughter stopped, and everyone sat up straighter, looking to their queen. 'We apologize. We shouldn't have been talking like that around a lady such as Her Highness."

She'd been off to the side embroidering by the campfire light, offering the knights the same distance as the king, but apparently, she'd changed her mind. Alistair's eyes came open, instantly irritated with the woman. _'Why couldn't she just leave well enough alone?' _He'd started to get up when her next words sent him back down to his bottom.

"Pish, posh, you were just having fun. There's been a fair lack of that lately, and I'm hardly made of flinted ears, they won't burst into flames at your heated talk." She smirked, a hand going to pat one of the men on the shoulder and earning his slightly surprised smile in turn. "But, I seem to recall a story about bluebells . . . if you'd care to hear it?"

A murmur from the small gathered circle of four, the other knights resting, along with Ser William. Finally one brave soul nodded, moving over to make a spot for the queen. "Here, you can sit next to me, Majesty."

Noble had come over, taking a place at his mistresses feet, the line of bone above both eyes moving like eyebrows, curious as to what was going to happen.

A pensive silence, broken only by the sounds of the campfire, and the shuffling of those knights awaiting a good story. Finally Gwyneth cleared her throat, her tone dropping lower, that posh accent lending a gravity to the words. She was hardly a storyteller, but some of her lessons from Sage Aldous had stuck with her, and for once she had a use for them.

"Well, in days long before the Maker granted Andraste unto his children, Ferelden was a very different place. Governed by gods of old, their images made as great dragons. The Avaar clans did not worship these beings of power as we understand our own worship today. The Old Gods would touch Thedas and visit it, taking sacrifices and presiding over festivities to honor them. They were visceral, they were waking reality . . ." Gwyneth paused, a hand rubbing at her throat for a moment. It felt good to speak of Old Gods as things of the past, to try and put aside her revulsion of Urthemiel and the waking _nightmare_ he represented. She smiled, as the knights waited for her continue. Grown men, as eager for her tale as her late nephew Oren would've been. There was something endearing in that. "It was that ability, to touch the face of deification that drew the ancient Tevinter empire to those same deities, taking up the religion of our native Avaars."

"One such deity, the Goddess of the Wood, Uvolla, was said to have had a temple in this very forest." She spread her hands out dramatically, waiting as the long shadows of the woods and sounds of the night lent a natural ambience to her tale. "The Tevinters would come to call her Lusacan, She who holds dominion over the night, and she whosoever watched the souls of the departed and oversaw their delivery to the darkness of their lives, when the candle that kept death at bay finally went out."

"As I'm sure we're all familiar, the Avaars did not take too kindly to the sudden presence of imperials in their lands, and they fought, many, _many_ bloody battles. In fighting, however, the native Avaars forget to pray as the Old Gods thought they should, they forgot their sacrifices. Their faith forgotten, so too was the ethereal boon granted to them left behind. Their battles were then only of their own skill, having lost the favor of their gods."

"Here in the forest we now call the Wending Wood, there was one such battle on the horizon. Some of the initiate priests amongst the imperial forces communed with their new gods, and Lusacan told one of these young priests of hers about her disappointment amongst her _other_ children. He eagerly wished to prove that the Tevinters would never forget her, or fail to provide her with sacrifices, if she could but help them to defeat the wayward Avaars.

"Lusacan granted her favor, calling to the life of the wood around her. A field of bluebells grew, innocently enough, in a clearing in the center of the forest. Things of beauty and life where ugliness and death had been."

The king watched his wife's back, as she moved her arms to enunciate the story where she probably thought it needed it. He'd never even known she _had_ any stories, mostly just accounts and anecdotes of her family's _supposed_ greatness, but this one was neither. It reminded him hauntingly of the rose he had picked in Lothering, of the comparison made between it and Leliana, but Gwyneth hadn't heard that exchange and he certainly hadn't relayed and yet, her own words just then seemed achingly familiar.

"These were no normal flora, mind, but crafted by Lusacan's anger for her neglect at the hands of her Avaar children. So it was that they would emit a call of unknown doom to those they entranced.

"The Avaar warriors were resting that night, preparing for the battle that would meet them on the morrow, when many of them began to hear a light ringing, almost as if a song in the woods. Curious, they followed it to the field of bluebells, and no sooner did they enter this field when the ground began to rumble around them!" Gwyneth spread her palms out, shaking them fiercely with her words as the gathered knights watched closely, drawn in by the tale.

"They shouted and ran every which way, fearing this quaking of the earth beneath their feet, but it was too late. Lusacan had drawn them to their doom, as the night swallowed their screams, the forest floor cracked open and they fell into the bowels of Thedas and their _death_." The queen shook her head sadly, glancing at the men around her, those silver eyes eerily alight from the campfire. "A reminder to us all that we shouldn't forget that there is always something greater than us. If ever as we sit here, shrouded by the Wending Wood, do we hear the ringing of bells in the forest, we should take care. For perhaps the spirits of those doomed Avaars yet walk, waiting to find their revenge, and to offer sacrifices to the temple hidden in this very forest, so that they might live again."

Someone was ringing a bell, and the group around the fire looked up sharply at Ser Boughton, who had cheekily rung one of the bells he'd taken off his horse's saddle, not wanting to use it to alert enemies. He laughed at the looks he received before putting the bell back in his rucksack.

"Boughton, you bastard! You know _I_ have the watch next!" Ser Amstead was on his feet instantly, even for the laughter around him.

"Well, you certainly have a flair for the dramatic Ser Boughton." Queen Gwyneth rose, Amstead taking her hand to help her up, as she smiled at the man still sitting opposite. "Thank you."

"As does Her Majesty. That was a good tale, My Queen." The cheeky knight smiled broadly, taking the sovereign's hand to plant a gallant kiss atop it before he too was on his feet, grinning pleasantly at the irritated knight beside him. "Ah, it's alright my friend, I'll take the watch _with_ you, eh?"

That seemed to calm the blonde Amstead considerably, and it was on good humor that the queen excused herself to make for the covered wagon, where she would spend another evening with Noble, and the demons in her head. "Come along then, my baby, it's time we took to our rest." She clapped her hands together, as Noble got up and began a slow walk behind the queen.

She frowned, not looking forward to another night of restlessness, but it couldn't be helped. Alistair was still seated by the wagon wheel, an unopened book lain across his lap. Gwyneth spared him a short glance, but had soon turned her head and pulled the flap back.

"_Flair for the dramatic_. Yeah, I guess you do alright. Too bad my knights don't know you aren't all nice smiles and friendly stories." Alistair's voice came at her, even as he stared ahead to the campfire, as if caught up in the flames. His words were almost toneless and cold.

Gwyneth sighed, hands at the edge of the smooth wood rim. "Alistair, I really don't want to have an argument with you. I'm tired."

"Playing games with people must be hard work, I guess."

"I was just telling them a scary story, that's _all_!" Frustrated, she turned to finally look at him, taking an involuntary step back at the anger in those brown depths that greeted her.

"How convenient. You never were much of a storyteller before, then all of sudden, there they are, lacking one. And who is there to _swoop_ in and rescue them? Why it's my conniving little wife." He smiled up at her and it was bitter indeed.

"That's _ridiculous_. I was just being nice and you're accusing me of an ulterior motive when there wasn't one!"

"Hmph! Must be the first time then. Tell me, _darling_, where did that _charming_ tale come from?" The smile remained, feral and angry, glad that she wasn't going to play him anymore. Alistair was done falling for the trap, entirely unaware that some of the bite to his voice was reminiscent of Gwyneth's own sharp tongue. The book fell from his lap as he stood suddenly and backed her against the opening of the wagon, where she'd either have to go inside or find a way past him. Noble was growling low in his throat, his loyalty to his mistress superseding any friendly feelings for Alistair, but the king ignored the mabari, too incensed to care, or to worry that his knights might see the heated exchange.

"It was just one of Aldous' lessons, the sage that tutored my brother and I. One I happened to remember and added my own spin on, that's all it was. For goodness sake!" She snarled at him, glancing over one of the king's broad shoulders to watch the knights that remained at the fire, but decency it seemed kept them from looking.

"_Really_? So it wasn't you trying to bring to mind some likeness of Leliana and _her_ stories, in an attempt to get at me?" Alistair raised his brows, bringing his face close to Gwyneth's where she wouldn't have room to think of a better explanation and not have it show clearly in her eyes.

"_What?_ Don't flatter yourself! I have no desire to 'get at you', not anymore." The young queen crossed her arms, flipping her dark red braid behind one shoulder, managing to be the epitome of obstinacy.

Both of the tall blonde's arms pinned her there, one on either side of the queen's head. Alistair's voice was low in timbre, but dangerous in tone. "Don't lie to me!"

"I'm _not_!"

Alistair snorted at that, not believing her for a second. "So what happened to this 'Aldous' then? Got tired of serving a bunch of stuck up nobles and was fed up with being used?"

"Rendon Howe's men killed him. They cut his throat and left him to bleed out on the floor of the library. My mother and I found him when we were trying to get to my father. Mother covered him with one of the tablecloths from the study before we had to leave." She stared at him, silver eyes wide but guarded, not offering any hint of her feelings on the matter.

His own eyes softened at that, the tenseness in his biceps fading away as he backed off. "Gwyn, I'm sorry, I didn't mean . . ."

"I know what you meant. May I go inside the wagon now, _husband_?"

Alistair nodded, chewing on his lower lip, waiting for whatever stinging retort Gwyneth might add, but she said nothing else. Not even another dirty look over her shoulder as she clambered into the wagon. Noble remained on the ground, and Alistair could swear the mabari was glaring at him.

"What? Stop looking at me like that!"

Noble huffed, letting loose one last growl before he too bounded up into the wagon.

That left the king feeling awkward, but when he turned to see if the knights were looking, no one seemed suspiciously interested. Only two of his men remained at the campfire, their voices too low to hear. The other two had already left for their watch as the men they were replacing had gone to their tents.

Still angry, but lacking an outlet, Alistair let off a rumble of frustration, kicking his new book. "Maker damn it all to hell!"

* * *

Though it wasn't terribly cold, the dampness of the wood seemed to seep right into the wagon, and through Gwyneth's blankets. She shivered and curled her legs up, bringing the blanket edge up to her chin, reaching out with one arm to cradle Noble against her. He was whining in his sleep on occasion, hind legs giving short kicks. At the closeness to his mistress he seemed to calm down, falling into a more restful breathing pattern. Gwyneth wished she could sleep so easily.

Every noise had her on edge, and she was almost regretting telling that absurd story about ringing blue bells, convincing herself she could hear them, out there in the trees waiting for her. The Thorns of Dead Gods had been left out, both together and pressed against the edge of the wagon, away from the bedroll but in easy reach. However, they offered little solace, because the queen doubted they'd do much good against spirits. So she stayed awake, despite her exhaustion, trying to ease her mind. Eyes ticked back and forth behind closed lids, opening them when she heard a twig snapping, only relaxing when she heard the voice of the knight that'd caused it.

"_Gwyneth . . ."_

"No." The redhead covered her ears, willing that ethereal voice away. It seemed to follow her

"_Why do you fear me?"_

"Leave me alone." She squeezed her eyes shut, fighting back on her feelings of desperate fear, wanting to be beyond them, and knowing she wasn't. "Please . . . no more . . ." That voice seemed to follow her now, whether awake or asleep, and it had only gotten worse since they'd entered that Maker forsaken forest.

"Gwyneth?" A figure was standing in the opening of the wagon.

The queen screamed, reaching for her swords.

"You know, you're going to give me a complex if you do that every time I come in here." The voice was _definitely_ not Morgreth. He stopped and waved away the knight that had come to check on them. "Can I come in?"

Gwyneth finally was able to adjust her eyes to see him, Alistair looking rather rumpled in the strange blend of the dark wagon interior and the backlighting of the campfire farther off. "Yes." Breathless and still frightened, she managed to sort herself out quicker than last time. Having been awake already probably helped. "What's happened?" On alert she was already reaching for her boots, certain that if he'd come to her in the middle of the night, something had to be going on. His hand on her forearm stopped her, even as he quickly drew back.

"Nothing, well, nothing dire. I . . . I couldn't sleep."

"Are you ill?"

"No, I'm not ill."

"Well, I'm sorry Alistair, but if it's just restlessness you're having a problem with, I can't help you. Seeing as I'm having trouble with that myself."

The tent flap closed behind him as he settled his height down into the confined space, dropping his bedroll on the floor. He had planned out what he might say. The king had thought to apologize to Gwyneth for what he'd accused her of earlier, but considering some of the things _she'd_ done and said to _him_, it wasn't so prevalent. After that he imagined he might tell her that he missed how her hair made the pillows smell of her lilac powder, but that was even worse and she'd read that as a weakness. So he went with his third option.

"Ser William is a good knight, no question, but he snores bloody awful. I've been putting up with it, but I really want to get some rest before tomorrow, and I thought . . . here _you_ are, with . . . well, not _plenty_ of room, but some room. So . . ." He shrugged, unable to see her reaction in that darkness, but he felt her looking at him, studying him. It sent the tiny hairs on his arm prickling and he hated not being able to see Gwyneth properly, only a dim outline of her.

"_You_ snore too, you know. So loud sometimes, I could mistake you for a wild boar." Her voice held a note of teasing, but it was low and lacked antipathy. Before Alistair could protest, she continued, much softer than before. "It's almost too quiet in here without it . . . and yes, there's room. If you don't mind a mabari between us."

Alistair settled down onto the floorboards, unrolling his own bedding on the space left open in his absence. "Just so you know, I'm still angry with you." He wasn't about to let her start thinking he'd forgiven everything.

"I understand."

"That's _it_? You aren't going to argue with me?"

"You _want_ me to?"

"No."

"Alright then, so don't complain."

The young king didn't really know what to say that, so he simply settled down into his bedroll in silence, listening as Gwyneth did the same. She was still a bitch, still not to be trusted and still got under his skin . . . but she didn't snore, and she told a good ghost story.


	29. Chapter 29: Temporary Alliance

**Disclaimer:** _"Dragon Age: Origins" and all its expansions and additional content is the property of Bioware and EA Games. Large portions of written content within the game, as well as Dragon's Age: The Stolen Throne, and Dragon's Age: Calling, are the creation of David Gaider. "Enjoy the Silence" is the property of Depeche Mode. Original scenarios and characters are used under the creative license of the writer, ItalianEmpress1985. No profit is being made and the following story is for entertainment purposes only_

**Words From The Author: **_There are some shenanigans between two adolescents here that are underage (though nothing 'X' or 'R' rated of course, I don't even think it's PG-13), so I'm trying to be quite careful in what I write, but if for any reason someone thinks it should be changed, please let me know. Fifteen just seemed the perfect age between still being a child and being an adult, once sixteen came, I think a lot of that childish innocence would start to dissipate, this is, I suppose, where that spiral towards more mature (in theory ;P) thinking began. Having everyone in the world wait until they are eighteen to kiss each other didn't quite seem realistic to me, which is why they are younger, but I can make it so if anyone thinks it should be. I would hate to have the story taken down over something that I can easily change._

_Also with their ages, I wondered how they might speak. In case anyone thought they might come across as too well spoken for fifteen year olds. I know when I was fifteen, I tried to sound more mature than I was :p, though of course there was a lot more slang in my time, then there would have been during the dark ages or the renaissance (the two time periods I'm using as reference here.) So I figured they'd sound like teenagers 'trying' to sound like adults, and still showing their formal and classical education._

_As is the case with Gerod Caron, who by rights should have had an Orlesian accent in the game and didn't, the same treatment was done with Oriana, who was from Antiva (as evidenced by certain dialogue trees in the Cousland origin) In the game she had a Fereldish accent, when it should've been Antivan. Unless there is an unknown and convoluted 'canon' out there of her being Fereldish but having lived in Antiva for a time, but considering she calls herself an Antivan woman, I doubt that's the case. _

_Also! Sandals make a brief appearance here. Though flip flops these are not, since the only sandals they had in the dark ages/renaissance were very basic and based on Roman design. Just keeping it real, people. :p_

_Last but not least, Happy New Year! :D_

* * *

_**Chapter Twenty Nine:**_

_**Temporary Alliance**_

* * *

June 5'th, 9:31, Dragon Age

_**"T**__homas! Move aside, let me see!" Gwyneth Cousland stood on a small stack of crates in the stables, alternating between covering her nose with one long sleeve, and giggling with Thomas Howe. At the age of fifteen they were caught in the place between their disappearing childhood and the adulthood that had yet to claim them. Gwyneth was gaining the curves that would mark the womanly figure that hadn't made itself fully known, while Thomas' shoulders were broadening and his voice gaining a depth that was hardly boyish at all anymore. He'd even stood up at Fergus Cousland's wedding just that past April for a speech that he'd delivered with aplomb._

_"Nothing to see 'yet' Gwyny-Gwyn." Thomas smiled, a lock of escaped blonde falling, to tickle the side of his mouth._

_Spying on his older brother Nathaniel, as he made time with one of the maids, was an entertaining exercise on a summer's afternoon, when there was little else to do, and too few fellows or young ladies of Thomas' own age about. He certainly wasn't going to bring his ever worrying sister. _

_The two adolescents snickered together as the red haired maid giggled coyly, changing her basket of apples from one hip to the other. Nathaniel took one and bit into it slowly, as he continued to block her path, looking resolute and serious, even if he was being flirtatious. 'Nathaniel was _always_ serious.'_

_"She's barely even playing hard to get!" Gwyneth criticized under her breath, rolling her eyes in tandem._

_"Shh, shh, I think he's going in for the kill!" The slightly older Thomas nudged his partner over as he pressed his cheek to the boards, looking through a knothole there._

_Sunlight filtered in a burnished haze, the stables empty as the visiting noblemen to Vigil's Keep had taken the mounts out for a hunt. The smell wasn't as horrible as it could've been, but it wasn't pleasant either and Gwyneth wondered why she had agreed to come in here. _

_Thomas had spotted his older brother flirting with one of the keep's staff, and grabbed Gwyneth's hand, pulling them both into the nearby stable where they would hopefully go unnoticed. With little else to occupy her, the youngest Cousland had acquiesced, but it was hardly any fun at all if she couldn't see what was happening. 'How was she to have ammunition for gossiping with her ladies later on?'_

_Her own brother used to provide entertainment with his propensity for challenging his fellows to duels, which he frequently won. Though Gwyneth suspected that at least sometimes his friends _let_ him win. Fergus also was a great deal of fun to tease and get after, with his silly activities. Hunting and wrestling in the dirt with the dogs like a simpleton . . . 'Honestly!'_

_Lately, however, he'd been no fun at all, with his stupid Antivan wife and her stupid pregnant belly, always there as a reminder that Fergus was too old to be much fun anymore. Gwyneth didn't want to be an aunt, it made her feel old herself, and she wanted to be young forever, and Oriana's accent was irritating besides. Probably the new Cousland would grow up talking the same way. 'Mi Tia Gwyn' instead of 'My Aunt Gwyneth' as it damn well should have been, 'hmph!'_

_Part of the young lady knew that she only hated her sister-in-law's accent, and the woman herself, because she'd taken Fergus away from her. That didn't mean she had to admit it though. So, Thomas Howe had become her _new_ source of entertainment, away from her ladies, though her interactions with _him_ were quite different than those with her brother. He provided a target for her to practice her untested and budding skill on; flirtation._

_"Ooh, yes, look at that!" Thomas' voice held the excitement of an adolescent enjoying some illicit behavior, even though he was too young and inexperienced to have any personal knowledge on the subject._

_"What? What!" The lanky red headed noble stretched her legs as much as she could, but Thomas was blocking her entirely. When he pushed back against her with his shoulders, they both toppled off their piled crates and onto the straw covered floor. "You ninny! Look at what you've done! Now I'll have straw all stuck in the ribbons of my dress, and what will my mother say? And . . . "_

_He put one hand over her mouth, craning his neck to the arched opening of the stables. "He's heard us! He's coming! Quick!" With a flurried jerky movement that seemed to belong to juveniles if anyone else, the two of them were quickly hidden up in the loft, peering over the edge as Nathaniel came huffing inside._

_"You jackmite! I know you're in here!" His black hair had been pulled back into one long ponytail, and it swished violently as the eldest Howe searched the stables for his mischievous brother. "Come out, you coward!" Nathaniel didn't notice the two pairs of eyes watching him, and when his own traveled up to the loft's edge, the spies had already hidden behind some large hay bales and crates. With a gruff curse sent throughout the stable, nineteen year old Nathaniel had given up, and likely gone back to his flustered maid._

_Thomas covered his mouth to keep from laughing, his older brother's insults barely fazing him, before settling back against the tall crates, breathless with his purile enjoyment. He looked over to Gwyneth, his gray eyes almost seeming charcoal compared to light silver of hers. "Well, dolly girl, what should we do next?"_

_"Provided your brother doesn't find us and attempt to kill us for watching him?" Gwyneth smirked, her young lips drawn up in the same enjoyment her companion was experiencing. "Well, I think I should like to go swimming. I don't get to take a dip in the Amaranthine Sea that often."_

_He could remember when she had, just this past week. Her long red hair dripping with water, and looking much more of a dark brown, lain against her back as she wadded in up to her hips. The white of her shift showing the cream of that unblemished skin of youth, in its dampness. Gwyneth had looked alive and vibrant, as unto a sea nymph, escaping to the shore for a time before disappearing into the vastness of those cool waters. She was smiling coyly at him now, tilting her head to one side as she studied his expression of contemplation._

_"Whatever is it that has captivated you so?"_

_"You." He smiled back, broad and wide, and as entitled as his father assured him he ought to feel. Thomas was a Howe, and he should be unafraid to take what he wanted. "Just you, Gwyny-Gwyn." And right now, he wanted to kiss Gwyneth._

_"W-what are you doing?" Wary, she shirked back, brushing her long braid behind her and tossing her head to look ever so prim._

_"Kissing you."_

_"Oh no, Mother said my virtue is very important. I can't just go around kissing boys all willy nilly." She stuck her nose in the air, thinking she'd look fairly high and mighty._

_The young Lord Howe threw back that blonde head and laughed. "Gwyny-Gwyn, you won't lose your virtue from a _kiss_." At least, he was pretty sure you couldn't. "Just from sseexx." He drew out the word, teasing with it, and proud that he was old enough now to know what that was._

_"Thomas!" Scandalized by such a naughty word, though she'd heard worse from her brother and his lot, but she wouldn't admit it. Her hands made knots in the pale blue of her summer dress. "It's just . . . I've never been kissed before. Mother and Father would never allow it." Waiting and wanting for something new, to no longer wonder at what it would be like, she still knew she had to play her reluctance. 'The Art of Seduction' said it was so, even if it was a very forbidden book for young ladies to read, it had been fairly informative._

_Perhaps Thomas was afraid that if he played at what he wanted any more, that Gwyneth would bolt on him, and so he just went for it. She stiffened up on him, but he was persistent, and soon he found those lips pliable beneath his own, tasting of salt and sugar from the sweet pasties she'd eaten earlier._

_"I'm not sure that . . ." Gwyneth protested when she had a free moment, but Thomas only smiled at her, reassuring._

_"You're beautiful Gwyny-Gwyn, and beautiful girls should be kissed. It's alright, I won't tell anyone." He pressed her back against the crates, still nervous that she would escape him, and more nervous yet that he was going about it all wrong. Though she had yet to shout any complaints. One hand was pressed into the worn wood of the loft as Thomas leaned forward, becoming more emboldened with the passing seconds. That hand sat near one of Gwyneth's bare ankles, and the young Howe moved his fingers to it, just above the buckle of her fine sandals, a breathable concoction Teyrna Cousland had procured from far off Antiva City. He became bolder still, running that same hand up her leg, but she'd had enough, stopping him._

_Before he could say anything, there came the sound of approaching horses and their riders from the fields beyond the stables. The howling of the hounds the hunting party had taken with them, sounded out like a trumpet fanfare across that long summer grass._

_Thomas scowled. "Father is back from his hunt, no doubt."_

_Gwyneth perked up, gathering her dress in her hands as she made for the ladder, happy to get away from the over-ardent Thomas for the moment. Though it had given her a secret thrill, to be wanted the way the older ladies of court were, or so it was gossiped, and Thomas was a handsome sort. Still, it could've been an 'inappropriate mishap' as her mother would've said. The young Lady of Highever was determined to pack the incident away in her mind, for later use and review. 'Surely it wouldn't do to be taken so easily as all that!'_

_"Come along then, Thomas, you shouldn't like your father to find you in the stables like a common servant." Her thin lips were pulled into a wicked cat-like smile, as she stood at the bottom of the ladder, hands on her hips and looking for all the world like she thought herself the Queen of Thedas._

_"You mean, you shouldn't like _your_ father to find _you_ in the stables!' Thomas retorted, shooting her a flustered and perturbed look over his shoulder as he descended. He hadn't gained all his height yet, but it was enough to be able to look down his nose at Gwyneth. Blissfully he had inherited it from his mother instead of his father. "You won't tell anyone about this will you?"_

_The playfully coy girl shook her head. "Well, I suppose I _could_, I am a _lady_ after all. My father would certainly believe that you instigated all this to take unfair advantage of me." He was going to protest, but she pressed two fingers flat against his lips, and the unexpected contact surprised him enough that he was quiet. "But no, I won't." She batted her long eyelashes at him and Thomas didn't know what to say. "Because, if you were in trouble, how could you be free to escort me to the shoreline? And I'd still like to go swimming." Her mouth was pouting cutely at him, her face close enough that he could kiss her again, but the moment he tried, Gwyneth backed up._

_With a giggle and a wink, she gathered the skirt of her dress and took off at a run, long ringlets escaping from their ties to bounce against her shoulders. _

_Thomas followed, more than happy with the game, now that he knew no trouble would come out of it. "I'll catch you, you minx!"_

_Full of laughter and enjoyment, she bounded across that field, the image of their parents far off and hazy. They'd never corral them, not if they were running. Gwyneth's face was lit up with her smile. Until she ran into someone, so hard as to send her to the ground on her bottom._

_"Well, well, what have we here?" The words were familiar, and the voice more so, but it was not Morrigan that looked down at her, but Morgreth instead._

_That smile became a look of horror. "No!"_

"Majesty! Your Majesty!"

There was someone knocking on wood somewhere _very_ nearby, and it took Gwyneth several moments to remember she'd been sleeping in a covered wagon. Groggy, and feeling out of sorts from her dreaming, it took some time to get sorted out.

Alistair was lain beside her, all but dead to the world as he continued to doze, cheek pressed into the pillow. Where Noble should've remained between them, the gluttonous mabari had ventured outside the wagon, likely on another mission for treats.

"Majesty! Maj . . ."

"Yes, yes, I _heard_ you! Is there such a need to shout so early in the morning?" Gwyneth peered through the slit in the tarp, finally sticking her head through it and blinking her eyes at the milky yellow of a morning sun finding its way through the trees. The young knight standing there was easily remembered, as Ser Amstead, from last evening about the campfire.

He bowed, that dark blonde head laid low, as he looked back up. "Apologies, My Queen. I wouldn't have done, except Ser Aquitaine has come across some templars, or rather _they_ have come across _us_. He thinks it best that His Majesty speaks with their captain, a Ser Rylock by name."

"_Now_? But I've only _just_ gotten up!" She whined, not entirely caring if she sounded a tad childish, after all, he'd woken her up, she was entitled to be grumpy. Though considering Ser Amstead's knocking had saved her from another unpleasant encounter with the late archdemon, he might've earned a smile . . . and Gwyneth gave him one. "It's just . . . I haven't enough time to get dressed properly, nor does His Highness."

The young blonde knight blinked at the bright smile, feeling both parts flattered and bashful, but he reminded himself that he was a grown man and a knight in the king's service besides. "I _am_ sorry, Majesty, but their captain seems quite agitated . . ." He leaned closer, looking back over his shoulder cautiously before he whispered. "And between you and I, she's a harridan for certain."

Gwyneth glanced in the same direction her husband's knight had, trying to catch a glimpse of the apparently female templar captain. "I see. Thank you, Ser Amstead. Inform Ser Aquitaine that I'll have the king up and about in . . . give me fifteen minutes?"

"As you command of me, My Queen." He bowed and was gone, as Gwyneth's head disappeared back inside the dim caravan.

With a shrug and a sigh, she parted one side of the tarp to let the light in, while still offering some privacy. Now that she was fully roused, the young queen could hear almost every noise throughout the camp. It was certain that ease of hearing worked in reverse as well, and it was little wonder the knights had come running so quickly after her nightmares yesterday. Those screams of hers must have sounded out loud and harsh. Gwyneth knew she had to find some method of controlling that, she just hadn't a _clue_ how. What she _did_ know, however, was there was certainly no time for such contemplations just then.

Having slept in ladies traveling breeches and a cotton thread shirt, everything felt rumpled and itchy. She sent a jaundiced eye in Alistair's direction, glaring as she wondered how he possibly could've slept through Ser Amstead's knocking and shouting. '_Lucky sod!'_ One of his braids had come undone at the end, Maker only knowing where the carved bead had gone in the mussed landscape of their bedrolls, and was lain across one brow and covering his right eyelid.

Gwyneth shook her head, rolling her eyes at how Alistair still managed to retain some of the boyish messiness he'd once possessed, even if it _was_ in sleep. A small smile graced the corner of her thin lips, as she reached forward to brush the half-undone braid back and tucked it behind his ear.

One hand caught her off guard, and trapped hers beneath that sword calloused palm, pressing it there against his cheek. "Leliana?" His sleepy murmur came at her and she immediately stiffened.

"No." Gwyneth yanked her hand away, and went to search for her boots, hoping the polish was still on them. "We need to get dressed, so you'll have to get up."

Still half asleep, the blonde king wasn't quite sure what was going on, sitting up and rubbing his face as if everything would become clear and suddenly make sense. "Gwyn? What . . . " Those rich brown eyes blinked rapidly, finally thinning to shield his eyes from the onslaught of early morning sunlight that was bleeding into the wagon. "What time is it?"

"I can't say for certain, but I took a glance outside and it's not all that late on. Probably somewhere in the seventh hour still." She spoke with her back turned, rooting through her things, and getting aggravated with her hair.

"Seven? Seven!"

"Yes, you've gotten up earlier than this before. Come on then, we haven't all morning! I told Ser Amstead it would be fifteen minutes, no more." Gwyneth huffed at him, managing to have already gotten dressed, though it was hardly as fine an outfit as she would've liked, but it'd simply have to make do. '_Not even time for a quick washing! Pfft!'_

"Fifteen minutes for _what_?" Alistair groaned again, wincing as his back cracked when he maneuvered himself out of his bedroll, with far less grace than it took to get out of an actual bed. The young sovereign found that he missed his bed a _great_ deal.

"Some of your templar friends have paid us a visit, isn't that lovely?"

"Just because I was _almost_ a templar, doesn't mean all in that order are my _friends, _or _any_ of them really . . . and no. Considering it's seven in the bloody morning and I didn't have the best night's sleep, and I've only fifteen minutes to get dressed . . . it isn't lovely at all!" He pouted, yanking a shirt out of his rucksack in agitation.

"Ten minutes." Gwyneth corrected.

"_What_?"

"It was fifteen about five minutes ago, so now you've only the ten."

That time, when Alistair groaned, he felt a headache beginning behind his eyes.

* * *

"_Ser _Aquitaine . . ." Rylock stressed the title, the middle aged brunette woman looking quite sour in the face, her dark eyes almost black as she all but glared at the younger man before her. "We only request that we travel with you until you reach Amaranthine, as that is our own destination."

"Captain? Knight-Commander Greagoir said that Anders was only an _apostate_, now he's on the run, there was no proof that the fugitive had taken to using the forbidden arts." A brave and probably foolhardy templar spoke up behind her.

"No proof? No proof!" Rylock grabbed the man by the collar of his burgundy shirt, where it was showing above his traditional templar armor. "He's escaped from the tower at least a _dozen times_, and has _caused the deaths_ of countless templars and innocents alike. That is as much _proof_ as anything!"

"What seems to be the problem here?" An imperious voice broke the tension in the air, Rylock turning towards the new arrivals and bowing immediately.

_'Thank the Maker!'_ Ser William thought, though he didn't say it aloud.

"King Alistair." Straightening her shoulders, the severe woman rose to look rather proud. A swift though no less harsh change from her earlier and angrier countenance. "I am Captain Rylock, of the Order of Templars of Kinloch Hold. We're headed for Amaranthine just as you are. I thought it prudent to follow your own party and aid you if you are attacked."

'_You mean you thought it prudent to try and foster goodwill with a king that had once been very close to becoming one of you. Thereby hoping to be granted boons in the future if your knight commander wishes them.'_ Gwyneth corrected silently in her head, the fingers of her hand tightening where they were curled around Alistair's elbow in an image of unity. Captain Rylock had barely spared her a glance, and though she was incredibly incensed by that, the queen bit her tongue, wanting to see what Alistair would do.

She'd never really had a clear understanding of where he stood in the whole situation of templars and mages. Certainly, he barely claimed any affinity at all with the chantry, though it was obvious he did indeed believe in the Maker. Though, he didn't seem to have any familial feelings for the templars, he _did_ have an appreciation for their presence in the face of dangerous mages. Which, in hindsight, Gwyneth could understand, even if she sometimes found the templars to be over zealous and quick to suspect even the most benign of magical users. Not all mages were as dear to her as Morrigan and Wynne, however. Yet, for all that, neither did Alistair bear great love for mages in general, though he had taken a shine to Wynne quite readily.

It was, as always, interesting to observe, even if it lauded Gwyneth no more solid an answer to that aspect of Alistair's personality and beliefs. At least, not anymore than she'd already been able to glean on her own.

"Attacked?" The king straightened his shoulders, unsure of what the woman was after, and not entirely convinced it was as simple a thing as wanting to aid her sovereign. "By what exactly?"

"Not a _what_, Majesty, but a _who_. We've been on the hunt for a vicious criminal, a dangerous maleficar that goes by the name of Anders, though I imagine he's given himself a few others by now. He was to be escorted back to Kinloch Hold by another group, but they haven't reported in after the last letter from Amaranthine and they're now overdue." She had big eyes, but they became mere slits in her anger. "There have been caravans farther into the wood, on the different roads here, that were attacked by . . . well, honestly they claimed it was flaming trees, which sounds absurd, but you know how merchants and their lot can be. I'm positive it was _him_, he's escaped custody again, I'm sure of it." The woman had a brogue, that wasn't too thick, but seemed to get more intense when she put feeling into her words, and that feeling was _hatred._

"One of the men said it was an elf that . . ." The same templar as before spoke yet again, but was quickly interrupted by his superior.

"No matter what some man _hallucinated_ in the smoke of his burning caravan, I have been watching this maleficar for some time. I can recognize the _foul_ stench of his dark magic, and it was _certainly_ him."

Alistair watched the exchange between the woman and the man who appeared to be her second, raising one blonde brow. "I . . . see, and I thank you for your concern, but I can assure you Captain . . . ahh, Captain Rylock . . " He smiled, forced but bright nonetheless. "These men here with me are the Knights of Denerim, and I am very safe with them."

"I told the good captain here much the same, Sire. She seems resolute, I fear." Ser William cleared his throat, hands clasped together behind his back.

"And I still am. We won't be any burden on you good king, my men are well disciplined and we have our own supplies." She smirked at Ser William. "Though I'm sure your knights are as well trained as His Highness suggests, they are _not_ templars, and were this maleficar to attack you, my men and I are _far_ better trained to fight him."

"The flaming trees? You would be equipped to deal with them as well?" William smirked back, puffing up as if he was a proud peacock. Woman or no, his gentlemanly sensibilities bristled at her carefully worded insult. The first knight was unwilling to be cast into the shade by an ill tempered templar with the personality of wall paste.

Those dark brown eyes hardened on the tall knight, but she only nodded at the king. "We can protect Your Majesty, and _any others_, from _whatever_ magical dangers that may present themselves."

Gwyneth smiled tightly, eyeing the female templar without the disdain that was beginning to build. "Captain Rylock, if you will allow King Alistair and myself to confer with one another, we will discuss your offer."

Rylock almost started at the unexpected insertion of the queen, briefly granting her a look and a bow. She waited for the king to speak, but he seemed to defer to his wife, which left Ser Rylock no one to speak to _but_ the queen. "If Her Majesty wishes."

Away from the newly arrived group, Alistair's well put together facade turned sour. "Gwyneth, I could've handled that on my _own_! Now she'll think I bow under my queen."

"And you'd much rather she go on ignoring me as if I don't exist?" Gwyneth returned, hissing under her breath.

"Well . . . no, I suppose not." The tall blonde ran a hand through his hair, or would've done if Gwyneth didn't grab his wrist to stop him.

"You'll muss it up." Her own face was stern enough that he dropped that hand beside him. "You were going to deny Captain Rylock, weren't you?"

"Honestly? Yes. My knights are put off by her, I could see that plain as day. Not only that but she clearly has some kind of obsessed vendetta against this mage, whether he's as dangerous as she says or not, and I'd rather not have someone like that with us." He shot a glance over his shoulder, but found that Gwyneth had once again halted his actions, that time by taking a hold of his jaw and forcing him to look at _her_ instead. "Would you _stop_ that?" Alistair managed through lips made to pout by the queen's firm grasp.

"I will when _you_ stop making it obvious that you're nervous. Captain Rylock will notice, and that will hardly help diplomatic relations." Gwyneth smiled, moving her fingers from where they gripped his angular jaw, to splay them lightly against his cheek, putting on a show for those that were watching. "I have to agree with you about her personality, however as your queen, I think it would be very unwise to deny her. It is, after all, a simple offer of assistance." Those fingers danced across his cheek bones, her forehead moving forward as she stretched to press it to his. A fraudulently intimate portrait of a docile wife seeking comfort in her safety from her lord husband. "Were the templars headed out of the way, we could cry off on inconvenience, but being that their path is our own, think on how it would look to say the woman nay?"

Alistair sighed, his breath blowing away the curled tendrils of escaped hair on Gwyneth's forehead, the rest of that length done up in a long braid. He spared a guarded glance in Captain Rylock's direction, even as he wrapped his arms about the queen's waist, beginning to get the idea of the message their body language would convey. It did wonders, he found, to keep suspicious minds from growing more so. _Just some affection between husband and wife, nothing to see here._ "You think we should make her happy in this, so when she reports to the knight commander, he'll think I'm sympathetic to their order. Which helps us the next time we have a meeting with the circle." More a statement from the king than a question, as he already knew the answer.

"Exactly . . . and we aren't out of the woods yet, if you'll pardon the phrase. Perhaps it isn't so horrible an idea to have them along. I have a suspicion this mage she is after isn't quite as dangerous as she claims, the woman seems to be coloring her view of him by her own bias, however I can't deny that I feel _something_ out there. Almost watching us." When Gwyneth shivered as she looked to the trees, it wasn't for effect.

"Alright . . . my queen." He smiled and suddenly kissed her forehead, and was just as quickly gone and headed back to the templars. Alistair left Gwyneth standing there, a bit surprised at the action, and the king felt a smug grin forming on his face that he had to fight off. Though he didn't quite have her skill at pretense, he wasn't a novice, not anymore.

* * *

Darkness had come again, and still they had not left the Wending Wood. '_Tomorrow_' they said. Always '_tomorrow_' It was the answer to the queen's shaking limbs as she lay beneath her blankets and tried to think of places distant and far removed, of times even more so. It was the answer to the creaking of the haunted trees, and the tenseness to the templars they had taken amongst their traveling party. With the pines and birches too tall, dwarfing the humans that took shelter amidst their spindly bodies, and the shadows they bathed in almost breathing with unseen danger, it was little comfort at all. _Tomorrow_ _. . . but Queen Gwyneth wanted out . . . she wanted out yesterday._

There were no ghost stories that evening, no stories of any kind, just the pacing, the unspoken thoughts, and a constant vigilance that didn't belong to the templars alone. Uvolla, goddess of the wood, Lusacan, goddess of death, didn't feel gone from Thedas at all that night, but very much alive, and _watching_ . . . watching all of them.

When she finally did fall asleep, it was once again with her blades nearby and Noble beside her. Through her unconsciousness one hand curled about Cailan's amulet, though Gwyneth knew she shouldn't wear it to bed, she couldn't seem to part with it. As her mind was lost to slumber, those long fingers curled about that golden dragon and its prized sapphire as if having memorized the action. Just as the queen wanted to sleep through the night, so too did she wish that she could forget Cailan, but in both things, her wishes weren't reality.

* * *

Alistair had gone back to the tent once shared with Ser William to collect his attire for the following day. He'd become more used to constantly changing his clothes, which was something he never thought he'd do. Certainly not on the road.

"She doesn't sleep well, does she, the queen?" William himself was preparing his rucksack for the next day, which should blissfully see them out of the Wending Wood.

"You're concerned about _my_ wife, are you?"

"Oh, no, it's nothing like _that_, Sire." The knight was quick to reassure the king of his loyalties, in lieu of the younger man's disgruntled frown. "I think on my own wife, and I know it must be hard for you, being unable to ease her slumber as you are."

"Hard?" Alistair quirked his brows together, pausing with his hand hovering over the tied sack, a shirt grasped in his fingers. "Ah, yes, of course . . . it . . . it bothers me." It didn't sound half convincing, but he was too tired to care that much. "But, what can I do?" He smiled at his first knight and continued packing.

"That's true, but if I may be so bold, Majesty, I'm glad you've taken to staying with her at night. I'm sure you thought Her Highness should have as much space to stretch out as she likes, but I think perhaps your presence serves her far better."

The king paused again, studying the knight. "What was my brother like with his own wife?"

"King Cailan and Queen Anora? I'm not certain I should say anything." Nervous over the question, Ser Aquitaine made a task of rolling out his bedding for the night.

"I asked, didn't I?"

"Well . . . they tried to make it work for the sake of Ferelden, I'm sure, but . . ."

"But?"

"The whole country could see the cracks there, I'm afraid. I wouldn't dare to presume what feelings good King Cailan had for his wife, though I like to think he cared for her, but they were apart so _often_ . . ." William frowned, feeling like a gossiping woman, and he remedied it with a sly smile at his present king. "Not at all like Queen Gwyneth and yourself, Highness." He refrained from repeating the saucy rumors that had been floating around the palace, but he certainly knew about them. Though his wife would be sorely disappointed if she wanted details about such from _this_ trip, because Ser William hadn't seen or heard anything like that for the entire duration.

Uncomfortable with the direction the conversation could go in, Alistair changed it. "You served King Cailan for some time, didn't you?"

"Ahh, no, that was my brother, Henry. Though I _was_ in King Cailan's service for a short while. We Aquitaine lords have a long lineage of serving as knights to the king, I suppose you could say it's a 'family business'." William chortled at that, the lantern in his tent lending a pleasant warm glow to the planes of his face. "Most of the Knights of Denerim went with King Cailan when he faced off against the darkspawn, with so few of us left in the capital to guard the Royal Palace, as was our duty. I never saw that battle, and so here I am, serving _you_ instead, My King. I can't say I'm displeased with that, it has been an honor, Majesty."

Alistair's smile became broader, glad for his knight's support. "Thank you, Ser Aquitaine. What happened to him, your brother?"

"Henry served in King Cailan's honor guard. He died, Sire, at Ostagar."

"Oh, I'm sorry, I . . . I didn't know."

"It's fine, Majesty, truly it is." William's smile held as he looked up at his sovereign, though the sentiment behind seemed to fall in on itself. "I am saddened by his loss, but glad that he died as he wanted, in service to king and country."

The king fidgeted, having finished his packing, wanting to go but feeling odd now that he'd asked a personal query and received a melancholy answer. "Yes . . .well, goodnight, Ser William."

"And to you, Sire."

The templars had sat apart from the knights that remained up for the night, and Ser Rylock looked up to salute the king as he exited the tent. He returned the gesture, though when the woman appeared confused, Alistair realized that might not have been the thing to do. He rolled his eyes in frustration. _'Must _everything_ have rules of propriety?_' Of course, he learned the answer to that question shortly after his coronation.

It was dark in the covered wagon as he clambered inside, and when he softly called Gwyneth's name, there was no answer, but for a light murmuring and Noble's breathing. Alistair recalled a joke about how Fereldans slept with their dogs, but in _his_ case, it had been true, at least on _this_ trip. It would continue to be true if he didn't want to go back and sleep in Ser William's tent, and now that he'd committed himself to staying with his distant wife, the need to continue was prevalent. He doubted Gwyneth would sleep _without_ Noble for the rest of their travels. The mabari brought the queen safety and comfort, in such a way that Alistair was _almost_ jealous, if he hadn't convinced his conscious that she didn't deserve his guilt and pity.

The closest he would ever get to offering her comfort, was the joke of their embrace from that afternoon. Every note of affection, and the names that came with them, were nothing more than a performance for the masses, and Alistair could look leagues into his future and imagine that it'd always be that way. _'They were apart so often . . . not at all like Queen Gwyneth and yourself, Highness.' _William had said, so at least their acting was fooling _someone_.

Gwyneth whimpered in her sleep, her long limbs curling up in a fetal position, one arm snuggling Noble closer. Alistair watched her in the dark, her body barely an outline in the scant glow offered from the far off campfire, as he got inside his bedroll. Tomorrow would be another day of pretending, of being the king Ferelden needed, and a day of forgetting who he used to be . . . and for that, he needed some rest.


	30. Chapter 30: These Bloody Days

**Disclaimer:** _"Dragon Age: Origins" and all its expansions and additional content is the property of Bioware and EA Games. Large portions of written content within the game, as well as Dragon's Age: The Stolen Throne, and Dragon's Age: Calling, are the creation of David Gaider. Original scenarios and characters are used under the creative license of the writer, ItalianEmpress1985. No profit is being made and the following story is for entertainment purposes only_

**Words From The Author: **_I replayed Awakenings before I finished the chapter, to get a good feel for it, that I couldn't have done using just Wiki and YouTube videos for a refresher. I think I have writer's cramp though from the notes I took. Sheesh! That was a TON of dialogue. Which, I'm glad I did, now that the chapter's done, but it also reminded me of a lot of the 'huh?' moments I had throughout the game and I don't mean just for the bugs._

_Some things just didn't make sense, and other things were all clumped together with no time in between them to adjust. Such as the ten minute plus block of cutscenes and dialogue after you rescue Varel from The Withered. I don't want to get into what I didn't think worked very well or made a lot of sense specifically or was too rushed, because I don't want to rag on the game (I DID enjoy it after all) and more importantly I know not everyone will take issue with what 'I' did. So saying, the events at the beginning of the game will remain largely similar (darkspawn invasion, Wardens dying/missing etc.) but more specific points, such as dialogue, what they saw, the time it took, who performs the Joining Ritual etc. will be different. So if you have a moment(s) of 'hey! this didn't happen in the game!' You're right, it probably didn't, and it's probably on purpose. Also, I haven't forgotten about Nathaniel or Kristoff either, they just didn't fit into this particular chapter. I wanted to make it longer, but you've waited for an update long enough as is, so it's time to post this sucker!_

_Also, as I mentioned once before, the characters are NOT a mouthpiece for how 'I' feel personally, and when certain other individuals are observed from their perspective, it is colored by the point of view of that character. Just thought that bore repeating._

_So saying, A LOT of Gerod Caron in this installment. Since that character was pretty generic going by the expansion game alone, save a few origin specific lines (such as a line about serving in the imperial court, which I DID use in part) tossed in here and there, as you found in 'Day in the Life' I've made the character my own. So here's hoping he fits in, without running away with the story. Those silly Orlesians! :p_

_NOTE: __A lot of this chapter's content felt very melancholic to me, and I linked to the piece of music that inspired me, featuring the quote you'll find below, as well as sharing a title with the chapter. You'll find the link on my profile page, listed under 'extras'_

Bit'o French! Thank you Bing Translator!

_Par souci de Andraste! = For Andraste's sake!_

_Oui? Vous avez besoin de quelque chose, Sénéchal Varel? _= _Yes? You require something, Seneschal Varel?_

_Le sergent = The sergeant._

_Thank you for stopping in. Watch out for low flying dragons!_

* * *

_**Chapter Thirty:**_

_**These Bloody Days**_

* * *

_These bloody days have broken my heart._

_My lust, my youth did them depart._

_- __Thomas Wyatt_

* * *

June 6'th, 9:31, Dragon Age

The trees of the Wending Wood parted before them, as if a curtain for a macabre play that was finally over, at just past the ninth hour of the morning. As soon as her tan palfry's hooves touched the open wagon road, Queen Gwyneth's sigh of relief was loud enough that it drew Ser Rylock's attention. The other woman had generally been indifferent to the queen-consort, but she surprisingly offered a sympathetic smile.

"You look tired, Majesty. Are you unused to travel? I'd heard that you did a lot of it on foot during the Blight. It must have been very difficult for you, though there was your husband to help you, of course." The brunette templar looked ahead to where the king in question was riding near the head of the line.

"Well, he wasn't my husband _then_." Gwyneth sniffed, wanting to sneer but refraining. Though her bred manners kept her mouth firm. "As I am sure you must have heard, in addition to a great many tales of _fancy_ and _gossip_."

"We templars have little interest in gossip, that's true, but I think it's a pity that you had to suffer watching your betrothed carry on with some Orlesian slattern." She paused as if for drama's sake, either unaware of the treason her accusations could represent or lacking the care. "Men can be . . . cruel. It took a lot of effort for me to gain the respect of my _own_ men."

Such words were surprising in their glibness, and Gwyneth felt herself building toward a proper rejoinder. "I'm sure, and you are to be commended." She tilted that dark red head in the other woman's direction, her braid done up tightly. Gwyneth wasn't certain if that was the cause of her building headache, or a lack of sleep . . . or _other_ matters.

Rylock smiled, though it seemed like an expression she wasn't used to presenting without the added note of either sarcasm or nastiness. That notion, however, didn't carry into the templar's words, or the evenness of her tone. "Thank you ,Your Highness. It honors me that you would think so."

"Certainly. After all, I can understand how difficult it can be for us women to first find and then _keep_ our place amongst the men of this country. I have seen battle, and _not_ behind a great barricade, in those six months spent defending my country from darkspawn. Considering what we were _all_ up against, it would've been rather ill-advised not to take up _some_ manner of sword craft for survival. Though certainly not enough to make me unsuitable in the ways of nobility." Never was Gwyneth one to fail at patting herself on the back, a talent for bragging that was the bread and butter of many aristocrats.

It was a sneaking reminder that Gwyneth had happenstance and ability to defend herself, though admittedly not without assistance, but Ser Rylock didn't need to know that. Though carrying on her mother's ways, she had not allowed herself to be lost to the more manly acts of barbarism. _It certainly wouldn't do to be seen as such a mercenary warrior woman if she was to curry in a more cultured and refined age_, not that Zevran's lessons had passed on his _talent_, only the basics of his craft. The Queen of Ferelden would never be a mistress of the sword, but she found her tongue to be sharper at any rate.

Rylock's nostrils flared, once, then twice, her face settling into an apathetic countenance, a snarl hidden just behind that stone facade. "Well, I suppose then that we should all be grateful for the _perfection_ Her Majesty presents." Those dark brown eyes were dagger points beneath the rim of that cloak.

Gwyneth fought back an evil smirk at the obvious insult, hidden as it was. "Perhaps not as such, but we must all strive for it, mustn't we? Even if there are those of us who aren't successful in that endeavor." She cleared her throat, holding her head high, the line of the dark purple cowl pushed back from her forehead with the movement. "As for milord husband, I must remind you, His Majesty wouldn't take kindly to insinuations that he has ever been anything but a gentleman. Whatever manner of his affairs he had prior to his coronation, are as all such matters, on _his_ conscience alone. Therefore, only of _His Majesty's_ business, and none other's."

The queen patted her mare's neck, the dampness settling on her riding gloves. The road beneath them wasn't as soupy as it had been before entering the wood, but it was still a mess, and the slop and mud had already splattered up the palfry's legs and onto the bottom of the queen's boots. Despite the conditions, she held on to her regality as if in a death grip, as she turned her head to take in the dour woman beside her. Something that came more from practice than a born talent, but Gwyneth rather liked the idea that most people assumed she was just a natural at holding herself so refined. "Though, I can appreciate your candor and concern, I don't find this to be an appropriate topic, Captain."

"Of course, Majesty." Rylock drew her cowl tighter, hiding the upper portion of her face in shallow shadows, as the misty rain made her breath come out in wisps. "My apologies. I shouldn't have said anything. I mean, it might not have even been true. After all, I certainly don't believe you learned defensive tactics from a knife-eared assassin, or that a qunari blasphemer was in your party, and definitely not that you would _ever_ make company with a _maleficar_." Her tone sounded benign enough, but the sharp curve of her mouth seemed to suggest something quite different. "Truly, some of those rumors are . . . ridiculous."

"Quite." Gwyneth's eyes glinted, but there were no more scolding words. The tension set in between her shoulder blades released in relief, as the captain excused herself and moved up ahead to join with her second. The queen heard her mount snort, though there wasn't likely any inference on the other woman's demeanor. Gwyneth smirked anyway, patting the horse's neck in affection. "I agree, girl, I agree."

A sigh, feeling distant and soon lost to the misting rain, and she was urging the mare forward through the dampness, as it made her curls even more so, where they were exposed from the dark purple of her fine cloak. The color matched the one worn by the king, and she could make out his form near the head of their traveling party. He had brought his well bred mount, of Antivan stock by the look, closer to Ser William, the First Knight and was chatting with him. The laughter of the men floated back to her, and Gwyneth frowned. There would be no more laughter shared between _herself_ and Alistair.

_'You end that frown right now, my little flower. Frowning too often will leave a woman with premature wrinkles about the mouth, and we must not have that, not on my lovely Gwyneth. Smile for me, won't you?'_

Her back straightened so severely that the queen's mare whinnied, but she kept her pace as Gwyneth's body relaxed again. The memory had come so suddenly and without warning, Eleanor Cousland's elegant voice echoing on past the rain and conversation about the queen, calm in its delivery and insistent in its instruction. As it always had been, as it never would be again. Gwyneth bit her lip, one hand automatically going to where Cailan's amulet lay beneath her shirt, pressed to the clammy bare skin there. It was her comfort, for all that she felt the late king would've abandoned her. Somehow his presence remained a balm, even for those things that had next to nothing to do with him. It was with self disgust that Gwyneth let go, taking the reins with both hands once more.

Soon, they'd be in Amarathine. Highever and points west, wouldn't be so far away, but far enough when there'd been no word from Fergus.

Gwyneth looked to that whitish grey horizon, scavenger birds circling something up ahead. When the call came that they'd come across a burned out farm hold, she wasn't very surprised. Death had a fragrance she was more than familiar with, even with the stench of darkspawn corruption lending an added odor. It was that sickening fragrance that she smelled in her nightmares, and that now permeated the very air she was breathing.

"Majesty! I'm not seeing any survivors!" The voice of a knight, and the king's response was lost to Gwyneth's ears as she sighed.

_'I'm sorry, Mother, but smiles are not meant for these bloody days.'_

* * *

_'Raining. Again . . . still. Par souci de Andraste! It's always raining in this Maker forsaken country!'_ Gerod Caron frowned, trying to blink through the rain, even as the water collected on his eyelashes and dripped down his already wet cheeks. If it _wasn't_ raining, then it was _threatening_ to rain, and his right leg was aching persistently. The flamboyant apostate he'd come across had some skill with healing magic, but the injury had settled long before Anders had done anything to it.

He walked to edge of the balustrade, looking down at the base of the keep. At least the rain had been good for something, keeping the fires at bay. Though Gerod suspected they'd have to burn down many of the buildings later to remove the darkspawn taint that had settled over them. _Tomorrow, they would burn the bodies_.

Those bright blue eyes clenched tightly, his fist in kind on the hilt of his blade. The frost enchantment on his broadsword made it actually uncomfortable to hold in such dampness, causing the sustained magic on it to settle on the fingers of his gloves instead of just the white steel. It was his sanctuary, however, the deadly alliance of the Warden and his blade. Through all of the living nightmares he had seen. So he carried it with him, even now as the keep was settling into a nervous calm. 'Warden's Honor' he called it, and it had stood up to its name.

It had saved him from death many times over, but it hadn't saved his Wardens . . . his _friends_ . . . his _brothers_. When he had seen Vigil's Keep on the horizon, the dark and hot white of the flashing tempest illuminating all of it, the coil of dread had begun in his gut, and became a burning of sorrow and rage as he continued. Ser Mhairi at his side, and battling her own melancholy, as each step yielded nothing but more death. What survivors there were, in a desperate way, and many of them had not lived past the night. Gerod had to kill one of the soldiers himself, the man writhing in agony and screaming. _'Oh Maker! It burns! The pain!_' As the Warden Commander quickly slit his throat, the man's tainted blood spilling across his hand, it had almost been a relief to hear the silence that followed. Only that the silence was full, not of absolution, but of the reminder of his failure.

The injury that had yet to abate in full, had kept him away, and perhaps it had saved _him_, but all his men were dead and gone. Ruined by the darkspawn, mutilated as if the monstrosities took glee in such gory actions, or stolen away, the horror of which fate haunted Gerod Caron as he looked out beyond the ramparts. The rain was abating, leaving a thick mist in its wake. Clouds moved from the southwest to the northeast, the grey sky light with the new day, but dreary and heavy, as if it too felt that sorrow.

He closed his eyes, mindful of the horror that awaited him behind those lids.

_The few soldiers Ser Caron and Ser Mhairi encountered told tales of darkspawn, crawling up from the ground, as if ants swarming over all of Vigil's Keep. The call for action had come too late, and Seneschal Varel was among those missing. 'Why had the Wardens not sensed the approach of their enemies?' It was a question whose only answer was in that last stand, the loss of which surrounded the commander. _

_So they had braved the inner keep, the last Warden and the last Knight of Denerim, the errant mage allowed to accompany them on pain of death if he did not assist, though he seemed willing enough._

_Blood, some fresh and that old enough to attract buzzing flies that braved the rains, splattered on the cobbles and the walls. It was a graveyard without the markers, save those of grim demise, and all Gerod could think was that he should have been there, to lead his brothers at arms. It was his duty, and he had failed in it._

_Commoners, keep servants, ran, shouting brief appreciation and eager to escape, and soon were gone, but others were found. None of whom were of the king's knights and soldiers or of the Orlesian Wardens. Bodies were strung on the ornamental railings of the courtyard, torn apart beyond any recognition, and Mhairi had gagged, covering her mouth with an armored hand. The stench was overpowering, even for the rain that washed it away, collecting in rancid puddles on the stones._

_'Rowland!' She had shouted, going to her knees as they passed into the first hall, a prostrate knight lain there, slumped against the wall as he attempted to hold his innards with his hands. "Oh, Ser Rowland! I am sorry we did not arrive sooner!" Mhairi was a strong woman, anyone could see that, but at the scene before her, she cried._

_Gerod watched, feeling a helplessness as the man croaked his last words. 'A talking darkspawn with a withered face had taken the seneschal, they had to find him.' The commander wanted to know where he went, but as he asked the question, Ser Rowland took his last breath, his face almost one of gratitude as it put an end to the taint that had begun to crawl in his guts._

_Ser Mhairi said little else after that, save her resolution of vengeance._

_The next hall had yielded a foul mouthed dwarf. The way the self-introduced Oghren took the battle in stride irked the commander in a way he couldn't properly express. But beggars were in no position to pick and choose, and it was a desperate hour._

_They were a company of four as they traveled towards the back of the keep, darkspawn and straggling survivors scattered throughout. It was quiet there, the sound of desperation and the screams of the dying sounding far off, muted by the thickness of the stone walls. A large brazier was lit in one lonely corner, burning away, and unaware of the carnage that decorated its pride of place. A long shadow was cast ever longer by the harsh orange light, and Gerod looked up, to find the cause._

_Distant screams drowned out as the pressure in Gerod Caron's head became a drumming of his blood, the man's stomach clenching into venomous and biting knots._

_"I don't understand, if they are mindless monsters, why do they _do_ this?" Anders, already proving himself to be quick of wit and acerbic of tongue, was possessed of little but a sense of discomfort and sadness in that moment. Humbled by the death about him, like as not, but no answer came, because there was none to give._

_Though it must have been so before their arrival, the sound seemed to materialize, brought into stark reality just then. It was the steady and weak creaking of a ragged rope, the body swinging from it creating those shadows casting along the walls of the stinking and stifling hall._

_-'Beyond that, I am coordinating tactics with the men here, we should be ready for any of the smaller hordes that may come, though I urge you to take caution on the road. __We look forward to your arrival, Commandant Caron, and await it patiently. You will not be disappointed in us, I swear it.' -_

_Last words, as they were written from one friend to another, and now the only thing Gerod had left of his First._

_Matthieu's appearance was bloated and discolored, the look of death on the once handsome Orlesian's face one of irrefutable permanence. He had known he was going to die, something told Gerod it was so and he nearly gagged on the bile that rose to the back of his throat._

_Even Oghren had nothing to say, perhaps noticing that a moment of silence was needed, though Gerod couldn't claim to know much of anything about the dwarven warrior. Anders watched the commander but said nothing. Ser Mhairi looked away, eyes sad and dark beneath the rim of the dark helm the Wardens had gifted her with upon her arrival at The Vigil. She dared to put a hand on the Orlesian's shoulder. "I'm sorry, Ser Caron." Apparently he was not the only one to recognize the man above their heads._

_Even the sound of Mhairi's condolence died in Gerod's ears as he tried to recall the years of words shared between he and Matthieu. Never to be spoken again, as his corpse swung slowly above, the late Warden's funeral dirge nothing but the creaking of that damned rope._

"Commander Caron?" The rough and gravelly voice of the seneschal reached Gerod's ears and his senses as he turned about.

"Oui? Vous avez besoin de quelque chose, Sénéchal Varel?" The Warden's own voice sounded hollow and distant, even to his own ears and he winced as the older man quirked a steel grey brow in confusion. He did not speak Orlesian, it seemed. "Ah, forgive me, good man, I forget, you see? All . . . _this_, it takes me away from those studies that taught me your Fereldish." A gloved hand went to rub at his forehead, a thumb digging into his aching eyes. "What is it that you require, master seneschal?"

The aging Ferelden straightened his shoulders, not entirely comfortable with an Orlesian as his superior. However he was only reinstated to his _own_ post by order of The Crown, and it was also The Crown that had chosen Gerod Caron as the new Warden Commander of Ferelden. He certainly couldn't complain.

"Sergeant Maverlies wishes to speak with you, she has an idea of where the darkspawn may have come from. Though we've seen little more but stragglers, and most of them are dead now as well, we should take precaution. I'm sure you agree, Ser?"

"But of course. I will speak to le sergent, anon, yes? I just need a few moments to my thoughts." He smiled, the ugly scar on the left of his face pulling down his mouth, so only _one_ side curled upwards. When Varel didn't wince as many would, likely having seen too many years to rightly give a fig, Gerod looked away, not wanting to press his luck.

"Certainly, and may I ask when you wish to begin the Joining?" A loaded question, if ever there was one.

Gerod paused, taken aback by just how much this man, who was not a Warden, knew about their order and their ways. The Warden Commander half suspected either the king or queen had informed him, or perhaps even the First Warden in Weisshaupt, though that seemed unlikely. Despite his misgivings, the man's knowledge could prove useful, though Gerod was resolute to watch him carefully and halt the other man's tongue should it want to wag.

Commander Le Mercier had sent many of his own Wardens, and Gerod himself to replace some of those who had been lost at the Battle of Ostagar, but now they had only Gerod left. It was as sad a state of affairs as it had been before the Orlesian's involvement. Commander Caron sighed inwardly, his broad shoulders sagging with the weight of his turmoil. His own superior had found in him a strength of character, once part of the noble confidence he had possessed before the loss of his good looks and fine reputation. It was such a belief that the twenty eight year old man sought to live up to, and despite his great and keening sense of loss and personal failure, there were duties to perform. '_He would _not_ fail again_.'

Gerod had before him two willing candidates, and he was eager to begin building the ranks, yet he hesitated. "I have given it thought, and I find that I wish to wait until King Alistair arrives with his retinue. I should like his blessing for the first Joining to take place here at Vigil's Keep." He crossed his chest briefly. "Maker knows we need every last blessing we can get."

"Very good . . ." Varel shifted in the chainmail he wore, feeling much as he imagined all those left at The Vigil felt, dirty, tired and overwrought with sorrow and exertion. "There is of course, a smaller matter I would like your opinion on. Before we were attacked, I had thought to take care of it myself, but with you serving as Warden Commander, I have been given charge to hand such matters over to you."

"Well, what is it then, this 'smaller matter'?"

"Three days prior to the darkspawn invasion, there was a thief caught in the main keep, Ser Caron. He refused to give his name or the reason for his being here and the attempted robbery. I would've passed him off as little more than another vulture, hoping to find spoils amidst a weakened keep. The land is in a terrible state, and those things are, unfortunately common . . ." He trailed off, bright eyes looking distant for a moment.

"I am sensing a continuation, perhaps?" Gerod prompted, trying not to grin at the loss of the other man's trail of thought.

"Yes, well, it took _four _of your Wardens to bring him down. The young one there, your First, I believe, half joked that he would make a suitable recruit. But I have a wonder who he might be, considering the difficulty we had in capturing the man, and his stubborn refusal to even give us his _name_. It will have been four days he's been imprisoned now, I've already taken the liberty of having a basic meal sent to the dungeon, lest he starve to death in the interim."

"He survived the attack while locked up?" Gerod put a finger to his jaw, the thumb joining it there as he rubbed his chin in thought. "_Most_ curious. I'll see to this man then. Oh, and Master Varel?"

"Yes, Commander?"

"Thank you. I wouldn't have expected such fine service in a position like yours, considering you are a . . . local man. I imagine it would've been easy to subvert me out of spite, but you've been most helpful." Gerod nodded, foregoing the smile that time around.

Varel returned the gesture, that gruff voice not missing a beat. "The Orlesian occupation was some time ago, you are a Grey Warden, and there are other concerns that outweigh any of my feelings on the matter. That's what it is, to perform a service for your people, isn't it? Putting aside old grievances to combat the problem at hand?"

"I suppose it very well might be, indeed." He looked out to the horizon again. "It _very_ well might be."

* * *

It was an odd sight, to see but one man running down the road at them, casting frequent glances behind him and nearly stumbling several times over for his effort. Ser William Aquitaine put a hand out, signaling the king's party to stop, and he heard the questioning murmurs at his back. "There comes a man along the road, and I see no others. Still, he looks in a desperate way, even from _this_ distance and I advise caution."

"_One_ man couldn't possibly pose a threat to the lot of _us_." Ser Rylock protested, but was interrupted by none other than the king himself.

"Just as one _mage_ couldn't possibly pose a threat?" Alistair returned without preamble, narrowing his dark brown eyes at her. She didn't protest further, and he nodded, taking that as her submission, and turned his attention to another. "Ser Boughton, you are of good scouting skill. Go on ahead, but _carefully_, find out this man's intention and report back."

"Yes Majesty, with all due speed." The knight bowed, leaving his mount to trek ahead on foot, where he wouldn't be spotted so suddenly, as his mark had yet to see the king's party.

It was some moments later that Ser Boughton returned, the other man at his elbow and looking more and more frazzled as the distance closed. Spatters of dried blood were on his clothes, appearing like those of a servant, though it was hard to tell, dirtied and covered in sweat as he was. His breathing was ragged, but it appeared to be more from exhaustion than any visible illness, though his eyes were wide and wild.

"Majesty, this is goodman Agwin, of Vigil's Keep. He claims to be looking for assistance, says the keep was attacked, sometime yesterday." Boughton reported, raising a brow as he watched him, waiting for a slip up or action that would prove the man dangerous in any way.

In his desperation the man fell prostrate on his knees, reaching for the king where he stood beside his mount, causing Ser William and Ser Boughton in turn to draw their blades.

"Here now! Get back with you, man, you stand in the presence of the father of his people!" William warned, eyes alight with the warning beyond the words.

"King Alistair? _Truly_? Oh, bless you good king, bless the Maker! Please, you must help, you must go. People yet live, or they were at least when I fled to find someone on the road." He begged, hair falling in ragged clumps in his eyes, as he frantically swiped them away. "I beseech you, great Majesty!"

"Perhaps instead of _beseeching_, you could speak some sense. Tell _the king _what you told _me_, slowly." Ser Boughton put his sword away as William did the same, instructing the man as he pulled him to his feet.

"I . . . I was getting some water from the well. One of the Wardens . . . he needed it, for the anvil. Was going to do some work on his blade, I think . . . I . . . I don't . . ." He stammered, trying to get everything out that he wanted to say.

"Goodman Agwin, please, we haven't all day. Might we get to the point of the matter?" The queen intoned, gently but with bite in her voice, lacking the patience for the man's state, feeling edgy as she was to get to the keep sooner rather than later.

"Ah, yes, Highness, I'm sorry . . . it's just . . . I've been walking all this road, and to _finally_ find someone . . ." He dared to look up at the queen, and flinched beneath her sharp stare. "The sun had barely gone down, everyone was settling in. It just _happened_, they burst from everywhere. I could barely see anything, it was _so fast_, like a _swarm_!"

"Whose soldiers were these that attacked you?" Alistair peered intently at the harried man, concerned and alert.

"N-no, not _soldiers_, Your Majesty . . . it was those _things_, those _darkspawn_." He gasped the last word, horror evident in the widened orbs of his eyes. "An army of them! They just started killing everyone, and I heard screaming . . . and . . . I ran for my life! Two people came just as I got outside the main gate. A woman, looked like a soldier and I think the other was a Warden, the new commander he said he was. An Orlesian, by the accent." The man glanced at his audience, knowing he must sound crazed and hoping they'd believe him anyway.

"_He_ sent you to find us?" Gwyneth felt a rising panic in her, hoping against all hope that the Wardens yet lived. "How many other Wardens, how many left?"

"I'm sorry, I don't know. I just ran! The commander and the woman, they were going into the keep."

Alistair's head jerked forward to the sky that stretched above them, looking into the distance where Vigil's Keep would be. He saw no smoke, like that of a burning hold, but at their distance that didn't matter all that much. "Get this man some water, let him rest in the wagon."

Gwyneth glared hotly at her husband, not willing to let some commoner lay where she would find her _own_ rest later on. But it was not the time for her protestations to be voiced, and the queen held her tongue. She whistled instead for her mabari, instructing him to watch the man as they continued their trek.

"We make haste then, to Vigil's Keep, with no pause!" For once, Alistair barely noticed the command to his voice, his concern overriding all else.


	31. Chapter 31: Red Sky at Night

**Disclaimer:** _"Dragon Age: Origins" and all its expansions and additional content is the property of Bioware and EA Games. Large portions of written content within the game, as well as Dragon's Age: The Stolen Throne, and Dragon's Age: Calling, are the creation of David Gaider. Original scenarios and characters are used under the creative license of the writer, ItalianEmpress1985. No profit is being made and the following story is for entertainment purposes only_

**Words From The Author: **_I've used the 'Awakenings' game dialogue sparingly, and you'll notice that things don't happen the same way that they did in the game. I went over this in the notations of the previous chapter a bit more, but I'll do a quickie (heh! ;) ) here. I wasn't too enamored of everything in the expansion, and there were some things that whether I liked them or not, wouldn't work for this story. So expect changes, but also know that I'm aware of the game structure and haven't strayed so far that it's unrecognizable . . . I hope. :p_

_Had a bit of difficulty with this one. It was one of 'too many people in the room' issues, in this case, too many people in the courtyard. Deciding who would be noticed first, who would speak and when, how to cover all the characters, trying not to lose a smooth flow, etcetera. So hopefully it isn't too choppy, though I promise I won't feel insulted if anyone thinks it is, just let me know either via PM or review and give some pointers and I might do a re-write. At this point I've suffered over it enough, and it's time to post._

_No Howe/Cousland antagonism in this chapter, I know, I know, everyone wants to see it. :p I do too actually, but I would've had trouble fitting it in here, as I would've had to have the queen speak to Nathaniel before the Warden Commander, and story wise, that didn't make much sense. So next time, my fine friends, scout's honor . . . and I WAS a girl scout. Those thin mints are good aren't they? ;) Though there is some VERY angry Nathaniel here that, I can't lie, was fun to write. It goes without saying that the venom and the dialogue are a bit different from the game._

_Seen later on in this chapter, fun fact of the day: 'Noblesse oblige' is an old French phrase, used in much the same way that old English is used . . . sparingly. Popular a phrase, beyond France's borders, in the mid eighteen hundreds, but not used much beyond that. But it's very common in medieval stories (post written) and such, and literally translates into 'nobility obliges' from its original form, and in conversation would be 'noble obligations' and is used to intone noble mannerisms and carriage born in someone. It often has an ironic meaning, whereas it is supposed to be for those that took a noble obligation to help those of lower birth, but became more on the snooty behaviors of said nobility. Example: 'The empress carried herself with noblesse oblige' It has other uses and meanings, but the one used in this chapter is the most popular._

_Also, happy Valentine's Day to you all. I hope everyone has an enjoyable Saint V's holiday, and I'll see you again faithful readers. I'll save you some gourmet chocolate. Nom nom! :D_

_Thank you for stopping in. Watch out for low flying dragons!_

* * *

_**Chapter Thirty One:**_

_**Red Sky at Night**_

* * *

June 6'th, 9:31, Dragon Age

**E**vening drew in again, and still King Alistair pressed his company forward. As the sky became a blend of dark blue and deepening purple, a line of crimson touching the clouds that remained, parting to reveal a sliver of moon over their heads. The stench of burnt wood assailed their nostrils before the sky was painted with the smoke. What was surprising, was the stench of bodies on the pyre didn't blend with that of the wood, and though as the group of knights and templars drew closer to Vigil's Keep, it didn't intensify.

Two fires were burning high in a pair of watchtowers, sentinels to the wide iron gate of the keep proper. It looked battered, but still intact, a testament to how well built the thing was, and a reminder that Vigil's Keep was meant to be a fortress long before the Howe family made it their residence. The twin fires sent a swath of orange across the muddied road, the light illuminating the king's party, in that strange mix of the waning day, the drawing night and the dancing flames.

"Oy! Who goes there?" The cry came from one tower, and was echoed similarly from the other. Humanoid, and more with the hue of curiosity than of animosity. Both good signs that hopefully meant the Warden Commander had reclaimed the fortress grounds and main keep.

Feeling a little absurd at speaking with such a distance between himself and the two guardsmen, Alistair tilted his head back, raising his voice. "I am King Alistair, I come with my knights, a company of templars and my queen, Gwyneth. We're here to meet with Commander Caron, and to assist in your crisis, as we met a man on the road who relayed it."

"Commander Caron?" From the left tower.

"Yeah, that Orlesian fellow, the one barking orders with old Varel." From the right tower.

Gwyneth rolled her eyes, and bit her tongue. There was an apparent lack of order, or at least of proper communication, if the guards at the fortress gates barely even knew who their commanding officer was. However, that they _did_ realize in the end, seemed to suggest Ser Caron was still alive, and by their presence alone, that things had taken an upturn. She sighed with relief, though the air seemed clogged with smoke, and the queen took care not to breath _too_ deeply.

"Alright, in with you, but keep it quick, we've orders from our sergeant to hold the gates closed all the night." After the brusque greeting, the one man waved to someone inside the fortress walls, and the grinding of the gate's works was heard.

"This is your _king_! Have a care, and show some respect, man!" Ser William had bristled, clenching a gauntleted fist in the direction of the speaker.

"So he said himself, but I don't rightly know exactly what King Alistair looks like, so how do I know it be so, eh? But, we'll find out soon enough, and if he _ain't_ the king, you'll be out of here just as quick, I expect."

The first knight glowered, wanting to point out the king's _royal_ purple cloak, the fact that he traveled with a company of his own knights, but those things would've been lost on the rotter hawking up in the watchtower above them. William was going to begin hurling insults and accusations of his own instead, but the king put a hand on his shoulder, reaching across the space between their mounts.

"Let it be, Ser William. I'm guessing everyone here is a little . . . frazzled?"

There was a melancholic smile on Alistair's face, but it seemed to settle William down, though he still looked displeased as they passed under the old gate.

It was a strange feeling, to have rushed so to get to Vigil's Keep, only to find that the crisis appeared to have abated. The king was glad that the fighting was over, it seemed, but he was disappointed that he'd missed it, and his nerves were ticking with that lost anticipation beneath his skin. He was in a sour mood, more than a bit brought on by his grievances with his wife, and waiting to be attacked all along their trek and having not been _should've_ been a relief, but somehow it _wasn't_. The young sovereign could've used an outlet for all that pent up frustration.

Alistair's eyes took in the surroundings, cringing at the darkspawn taint he could see, yet clinging to some of the structures, almost looking like a thing alive as it shrank back from the flames that consumed those stricken outbuildings. He thought they might have been the servants quarters, and old sympathies rose in him. The servants would be the last ones thought of, and the last protected, their homes burning as easy to dismiss as _they_ were themselves. _Servants were an expendable commodity_. He'd been told that many times over, in his young life, by those others that shared his servitude in Redcliffe. _'Don't you never get too comfortable, boy, you can be out of here quicker than ye can blink.'_

He shook his head, reminding himself that he had a responsibility to observe all _sides_ before he judged. The Grey Wardens were _still_ his brothers, no matter what Eamon or Gwyneth or _anyone_ would say. Whether Alistair knew the new commander or not, he deserved the courtesy of withheld judgment, and at least some manner of congratulations for finding victory in the face of failure. It was more than Alistair had been able to do for his lost comrades at Ostagar.

Dismounting from the fine Antivan steed proved difficult in the set of his royal armor, but it would've been foolish to travel without any manner of armaments, and these were his, for ill or good. He ran his hand against the illusion of a dragon, engraved into the gold, and wondered why Cailan had favored such hauberks. They certainly made an impression, but it also made it difficult to move as you wanted to. Alistair flexed his shoulders, strengthening them, and preparing to be received by the new commander.

At the side of his vision he saw Ser Amstead help Gwyneth from her palfrey, arms briefly at her hips as she eased herself to the ground, offering the young knight a smile. Alistair couldn't restrain the narrowing of his eyes, battening down on sour feelings towards the knight. It shouldn't matter that he smiled readily at the queen, or wasted no time in going to assist her, and Alistair couldn't say why it bothered him, especially _now_ of all times . . . but it did. The king's face was a set of hard duty and displeasure.

An older man approached them from across the courtyard. He'd only seen the man once, when he'd come to court after being released from the 'custody' of the deceased Rendon Howe. Having been held on penalty of treason, the sheer fact that the man he supposedly wronged was more treasonous than Varel could ever be, said much. His release came as readily as his pardon, and the decision to place him as seneschal followed soon after.

"Your Majesty! It's good to see you, Sire!" Varel smiled broadly, making that stern weathered face seem grandfatherly, though it turned down abruptly. "Though, I have to say, we are having a dire time of things."

"So, I've heard, Master Seneschal. Tell me everything, and while we are at, where is the Commander of the Grey?" Alistair deigned to put a hand on the older man's shoulder in a show of support, but he hardly knew him and quickly brought that same hand back to his side. He may have only been experienced in courtly mannerisms for a few months, but he was learning, especially on the things one _didn't_ want to do.

"Commander Caron has gone to find the tunnels where the darkspawn came through, though I regret to inform you that the other Wardens are gone. We've found some of the bodies . . ." His lips tightened as if the man was fighting back on a wince. "And the others are . . . well, the Commander believes the darkspawn may have taken them." Varel lowered his head gravely.

Alistair blinked and took a deep breath, reminded too keenly of a young man left to mourn his loss in a swamp, with a mad witch watching over him and offering little in the way of comfort. The victims were different, but the feeling, less so. "_Maker's breath_." All dead . . . again.

* * *

Master Voldrik was snooty for a dwarf, though the few Gerod Caron had known were of similar mind, thinking many humans as pithy and weak as their construction methods, but the long bearded dwarf was a decent sort besides, for all his bluster of his own architectural talents. He'd seal those tunnels up proper, if they could find where they bottle-necked at the very least.

Leaving it for the time being left a pit in the Orlesian's stomach, but there was nothing for it at present. Increased guards would simply have to do. He had The Vigil to see to before he could go venturing too much farther in to the understructure of the place. After all, he hadn't even begun the Joining Ritual yet, and it was with a smile that he noted Mhairi's anticipation. It'd been too long since there'd been such an eager recruit.

The smell of the burning darkspawn taint had drifted into the stairwell off the cellars, and the stench only worsened once Gerod opened the door. He wiped the blood off his helm, pulling it off and relishing in the cool air against the sweat and dirt on his face. Sergeant Maverlies stood behind him, and he recalled her words of awe down below. Apparently, some of the legends of the Grey Wardens remained, though Gerod shouldn't be surprised, that it'd be in Ferelden if it was anywhere. The land where an archdemon had been felled, and the great heroes who defeated the beast now sat upon the throne. Which was something of a feat itself, at least where the First Warden was concerned.

Gerod knew he was suppose to question them about their survival, a matter that the common folk might not have known, but those at Weisshaupt certainly did. A Grey Warden that defeated an archdemon did not live to tell the tale, _so what was the reason behind the miracle presented in the new King and Queen of Ferelden?_ The commander pulled his gloves off, pushing at a strand of long black hair that had fallen from its ties to tickle his forehead, and rubbed at the ache that remained behind his eyes. What he was _suppose_ to do, for a First Warden that couldn't be bothered to send anyone from his own at Weisshaupt, seemed far less exigent than the duties that had fallen upon Gerod Caron when he'd arrived at Vigil's Keep.

There were rumors as to which of them had actually taken the final blow, but the fact was, they both lived, and it was a good thing. What was also fact was that they were set to arrive at the keep quite soon if they hadn't been delayed. The last thing the Orlesian Warden wanted to do was alienate two of his most powerful allies as he took over a command in hostile territory. Seneschal Varel may have placed duty above generational schisms, but the rest of Ferelden might not be so willing to accept any manner of rule from an Orlesian. _The questions could wait_.

A sideways glance was sent to the door of the building across from them, the group emerging from the deep cellars to the damp air of the drawing evening. Another matter that Gerod had put to the wayside was the thief that his Wardens had caught before the attack. Everything else had just seemed more important somehow, but he knew it was something of which he couldn't continually delay.

He took a deep breath, blue eyes closing to the sky, and the tease of the moon there. Smoke or no, it was good to breathe in the air again. That basement had been far too stifling.

The men that remained hale, though frightened in their cells down there, had been released with the promise of their work to restore the keep, though far more were those who had become tainted beyond aid. Putting down ghouls was an unfortunate business for Wardens during the days of the Blight and those that followed. Gerod had not _seen_ a Blight's effects before now, but he was no novice to what could happen, and distaste ran with duty as he slaughtered those mindless beings right alongside the darkspawn that likely infected them.

Any further contemplation, however, was rudely interrupted.

"Well . . . slap my ass and call me Sally . . . if isn't the pike twirler and sassy legs!" Oghren's voice echoed the tone of familiarity, laced with a penchant disrespect for whomever he was talking about, though even _that_ sounded oddly friendly.

"What are you on about, dwarf?" Anders peered at their shorter companion, straightening his robes as he caught sight of the guests across the courtyard. "It's the bleeding _king_!" He nervously rubbed at his neck. "They . . . uh, they say he used to be a templar, that's not true . . . right?" That worry seemed to fade as the mage saw another and seemed to shrink in on himself, his voice a scant whisper. "Andraste's knickerweasles! Not _that_ bitch!"

Mhairi paid none of them any mind, beaming with her first smile of the day. "King Alistair, and he's brought Her Majesty!"

Gerod glanced in that same direction, patches of smoke blurring his vision and making his eyes sting, but finally it passed and he got a good look at their visitors.

It was across that smoke worn and rain-water coated courtyard that he saw _her_, the purple of her cowl resting on her shoulders to reveal the wealth of cinnamon hair he'd come to memorize from the woman's portraits. From that moment, Gerod found his breath stolen away, unable to take another until her gaze found him. The stars were alight there, competing with those set into the sky above them, but Gerod could no more have looked above his head in that moment, than he could breathe without constraint.

"Commander!" Varel had seen them, and was waving the small party over that short distance. The man's gravelly voice, pleasant if not firm, ended Gerod's fascination.

Anders didn't move forward with the rest of them, trying to slink away with some excuse, but Gerod took a fistful of the other man's robes. "Come along, ser mage, there's nothing to worry about."

"Well . . . actually . . ." Those words were cut short as the commander bowed before the sovereigns, forcing Anders to do the same. Only to rise shortly after at King Alistair's motion.

It was not either man that the queen took notice of first, even as the king extended an arm for a gentleman's handshake, she was smiling past them. "Ser Mhairi! It does my heart good to see you well. Are congratulations in order then, do I greet a new Warden of the Grey?"

Mhairi ducked her head and returned the smiled. Turning to look admiringly at the newly named commander next to her. "Thank you, Majesty, for your kind words, but no, I have not yet joined the ranks. Commander Caron has been busy with everything that needs doing here, and I dare say, there's a _lot_."

"Yes, so it would seem." The queen turned to take in the man in question, swallowing back on her wince as she got a good look at his half ruined face.

The commander had written with elegant script that spoke of a noble upbringing and a classical education in all his letters. He had, though sparingly, mentioned in one particular correspondence that he had been the fifth born son of the noble family Caron of St. Talon in Orlais and had been knighted in service to the imperial court of the empress. With that in mind, Gwyneth had rather been expecting someone who looked like an Orlesian nobleman, but the scarred face that almost seemed shy of her attention, was not quite the image that had been residing in her thoughts.

She let her inspection travel across all of his face, dirtied from whatever exertions he'd most recently returned from, and not quite so young as Gwyneth had once thought. Perhaps closer to thirty than twenty, but she noted that without the dire scar that cut down the left of his face, he might have once been quite a handsome man. The hair was a shock of raven's black, a bit longer than Alistair's, and held back in leather ties to create a long tail of it, where one forelock had escaped and covered his left eye. She almost wondered if it wasn't on purpose, to detract from that side. He was looking at her with shadowed intensity, drawing those shockingly blue eyes away with inhibition, only to look back again, for reasons perhaps of avoiding the king's suspicions . . . or for motives that escaped Gwyneth's seeking gaze.

A smile was painted on her face with a practiced and quick brush. "Ah, then this must be Ser Caron? A pleasure, good ser, though I regret that this is all so . . ." Gwyneth paused, one palm unfurled and waved about to draw articulation from the air. "Well, so informal really, but I suppose it is the times we find ourselves in." She extended that same hand, waiting to see if the Warden Commander would clasp it in both of his, shake it boldly, or kiss it, thereby dictating much of his character to the queen in just that action alone, whether he knew it or not. It was a tactic Eleanor Cousland had used many times, one that her daughter continued.

"My queen." The Warden Commander bowed deeply, tearing his gaze from hers, not wanting to see the revulsion there once she'd took in his appearance. To his surprise, when he dared to look again, the woman was only waiting patiently. Gerod took her extended hand, and laid a small kiss atop it, noting the queen's dazzling smile before turning to her husband. "My king. I am glad to meet you both."

"Likewise, Ser Caron. Though, I don't think you have to call me _your_ king, you are a Grey Warden, after all, and owe fealty to _the order_." Alistair took in his own stock of the foreigner he had appointed as the new Warden Commander. The man was scarred badly at first glance, and walked with a sleight limp, but there was a steadfastness to him, in the set of a strong jaw, friendliness in an easy if not cautious and lopsided smile. What _must_ have been haunting the man was well maintained and Alistair found that he respected it.

Gerod paused at that, blinking before he shook his head, taking a moment to gather his Fereldish in proper order, though nothing could soften his rich Orlesian accent. "Yes, that is so, on both counts, Majesty. However, I may be from Orlais, but I am the Commander of the Grey of _Ferelden _now, and thusly, you are _indeed_ my king." It was a bold thing to say, against the words of the First Warden, who dictated that the Grey Wardens were to hold _no_ banner of any leader, save their own. Gerod was determined to start rebuilding the Wardens, and he would start by rebuilding _himself_.

Before King Alistair could respond, dark blonde brows raised as if he indeed wanted to voice his surprise, the dwarf made himself known, butting in between Mhairi and Gerod. "Hey! All this fancy schmancy ass kissing, and you clean ignore _me_. What am I? Chopped nug livers?"

A throaty chuckle came from the back of the Warden's small group, a tall mage that seemed to have been hiding behind the commander, showing himself as he grinned down at the dwarf. "From the smell, that's not a bad guess."

"Oghren! You drunken sot! What are _you_ doing here?" Gwyneth's eyes widened incredulously.

"Hey there, Legs! Me? Thought I'd try my hand at becoming a bona fide Grey Warden. I'd ask how things are going with _you_, but it looks like you've still got that icicle shoved up your . . ." Oghren's grin, wide where it shone above the line of a thick red beard, was jarred off from a shove behind him.

"That's _enough_, master dwarf." The commander warned coolly, appalled by his behavior, but wanting to avoid any un-pleasantries at that important first meeting. _First impressions were, as they said, everything_.

"King Alistair! Beware! This man is a dangerous criminal!" An outburst from the group of templars, Ser Rylock stepping forward, dark eyes wide and hot with hatred.

Everyone looked about them, at first unsure who she was talking about. King Alistair tried a nonchalant smile to defuse the situation. "Ah, Oghren, he can be a bit of an ass, but he's no _criminal_."

Anders' shoulders slumped, knowing he had nowhere to run to with the company present around him. He sighed. "She means _me_." Suddenly, he was being openly inspected by several pairs of eyes, and it put the rogue mage to mind of his first horrible days at the circle tower. Whatever explanation he had for his presence there, either provided by himself, or Commander Caron was cut short before it was spoken, Ser Rylock more than ready _and_ willing to relay her own explanation.

"This is the murderer we told you of, King Alistair! He's tried to weave himself into your allies in the hope that he'll be spared!" Rylock went for him, even as Anders moved to the commander's other side, watching the templar from across Gerod's shoulders. "Well it will avail you not, _deviant_! Justice shall be wrought on you when we bring you back to the tower!"

Anders squared himself up in indignant anger at that accusation. "_Murderer_? I was only defending myself from the templars _you_ sent after me, who, I might add, were more intent on _beating_ me than bringing me back for your half-assed version of 'justice'!"

"There! You see? The fiend doesn't even deny it!"

"Yes I _do_ bloody well deny it, you brainless cow! The darkspawn got to those men before I got a chance to do _anything_! I'm _never_ going back to that tower, and besides, I'd only escape again!"

"I'll see you _hanged_ for what you've done, and let me assure you, _maleficar_, that there's no escaping the noose!"

The king cleared his throat, having to shout to raise his voice above the other two. "Alright . . . _alright_! Now, let's all take a step back and calm down, all this yelling isn't getting us anywhere."

"Majesty, let me remove this _stain_ from your company, and I'm certain you'll have your peace soon after." Rylock bowed shortly at the king, eyes never leaving the mage.

"I must protest." Above the arguing and shouting, that one Orlesian voice among them managed to stand out for its sole accent alone.

"You _what_?" Ser Rylock narrowed her dark brown eyes at the Warden Commander, the pupils dilated in her angry disbelief. She was further incensed when he ignored her completely, eyes seeking out the king instead.

"This mage, apostate or not, has proven himself an ally to me as I've retaken the keep. He is, as well, a good healer and I find myself in need of such talents." Gerod worked quickly, having gone without a healer for so long that he was desperate to have one with him.

"Then another, _legal_ mage shall be sent to you from Kinloch Hold, if the First Enchanter and Knight Commander are amenable." The templar captain reached for Anders, but Gerod moved to block her grasp.

"And how long might that take, madame? Longer than I have, and needless a wait it would be, no? Since I already _have_ a talented healer."

"He's a _maleficar_!"

"I've seen no evidence of blood magic, and my need is no less _now_ than it was _before_ your accusations." Gerod held his head high, finding some of his old _noblesse oblige_ coming back to him.

"How _dare_ you!" Fuming, Ser Rylock was almost at a loss for words, and left to wonder why no one seemed to see the danger of an apostate just allowed to go where he pleased. _Had all of them gone mad?_ The king had been trained as a templar at one point in his life, she believed those rumors and their sovereign had done little to dissuade them, surely _he_ had an understanding of the state of things. Instead, he seemed content to let the _Orlesian_ speak his mind. Her lip curled up in a sneer. "Prancing in here as if you are lord on high. Pfft! Your Majesty . . ." She turned to the king. "I implore you to disregard this _Orlesian's_ advice, illegal mages must be dealt with by the templars and the chantry. This man has _no_ authority to . . ."

"Actually, I _do_. As Warden Commander I am in _every right_ to conscript _whomever_ I need for the cause, and as all can see . . ." Gerod swept an arm to indicate their surroundings. "The need is great, unless the chantry thinks that justice on one lone escaped mage is greater than the safety of _all_ the citizens of Ferelden, and I doubt that is the case, no?" Those blue eyes were dark in their irritation with the outspoken templar captain, and set into hard points of light, his tone friendly, but a waspishness hid at the back of his throat.

"Is that what you mean to do, Commander Caron? You understand that you can't go back on it. If you conscript him, he _has_ to undergo the Joining." Alistair's words held both what austerity he had gathered, and a cloak of caution, with the need to keep what exactly the Joining _was_, a secret from most. Indeed, there were many curious and confused glances around them. Not the least from the mage in question.

Gerod nodded solemnly, glancing to Anders. "As I said, My King, the need is great, and I do herby conscript, Master Anders, one mage of the circle, to the ranks of the Grey Wardens, should he so prove himself worthy."

"Hang on then! What . . . what's this?" Anders looked at everyone, some faces just as befuddled as his own, others slightly amused, while some were solemn and Ser Rylock's face so red he thought to soon see steam coming from her ears. Not wanting to put his proverbial foot in his mouth and ruin his chances, he took a cautious step forward, both physically and in his words. "_Me_? A Grey Warden?"

"Absolutely not! He is a murdering scoundrel and I _will_ take him in for his due punishment!" Ser Rylock made another attempt to grab a hold of her target, but that time it was the king himself that interceded, the templar captain nearly banging into the golden dragon on the front of the tall man's armor. "Sire . . ."

"I'm sorry, Ser Rylock, I really am, but the Right of Conscription is more important here. With all the Wardens of Ferelden gone, the ranks need to be replenished." Alistair wanted to count himself and Gwyneth, but he knew that wasn't the right thing to say. He put his hands out, thinking the woman would keep at it, but she didn't. Alistair had a thought that he _really_ didn't care for service as a Grey Warden to be seen as some sort of alternate punishment, but he did know how important a good healer was and he wasn't so very keen on Rylock and what she claimed had happened. Templar and apostate or no. Time with Wynne had taught Alistair that not _all_ mages were so dangerous to the public once out of the tower. He turned to the commander. "You'll keep a close eye on him, I expect."

"Yes My King, _two_ eyes, if I can."

"Then I will allow it." It was courtesy, after all, once Alistair had made the man the Commander of the Grey, the Right of Conscription took precedence even over royal decree, but he thought with the animosity at the decision, that extra flourish might be needed.

Rylock spluttered, glaring hotly as if she wished for just _one_ moment she had the power of the mages she would hunt, so she might burn all three men to cinders with her gaze. With little left for her to say, she conceded. "If . . . If His Majesty think it's best." She shouted orders to the other templars, too angry to even look back over her shoulder.

Alistair almost rubbed at the back of his neck, already feeling the headache that the displeased woman could cause him, but thought better of a public display of his worry. He highly doubted Rylock would let it go as easy as all that. He'd seen how hateful she felt towards her target, and hatred paired with a want for vengeance was a very, very difficult thing to give up on. The king sometimes thought that _hate_ might be more powerful an emotion than _love_, though he tried to convince himself otherwise.

"Well . . . that was _thrilling_, though I don't care for a second round." Anders smiled nervously, not entirely sure what just happened, but certainly glad he wasn't going back to the tower any time soon . . . _hopefully never_.

"I doubt you made an ally with that move." Gwyneth finally spoke, her words clipped and Alistair turned to regard his wife. "_And I'm ever so glad that we're still _asking_ people before we conscript them_." She hissed, low enough that he barely heard her, but the source of her slow boiling ire was obvious in those words. The queen was quick to cover her irritation with an overly bright smile. "Still, I should congratulate you, Ser Caron, you seem to be quite adept at finding new Wardens. Master . . . Anders, was it? Congratulations to you as well, and _good luck_." There was something bitter hidden in there, but Gwyneth masked it well.

"Right, well, thank you . . . I guess. Your Majesty." Anders bowed briefly at the woman, glancing at the dwarf, who was shooting him an almost salacious grin.

"If you gentlemen will excuse me, all this smoke is too much for me. I'd like to take a tour of the keep . . . if it's safe?" She raised a thin brow at Varel, who had maintained a respectful silence through the debacle with Ser Rylock.

"Yes, Majesty, quite so, for the time being, and we've guards in place to keep it that way."

"Excellent. Ser Mhairi, if you might accompany me? I should like to catch up with you."

"Of course, Your Highness. Excuse me Ser Caron."

The Orlesian nodded his head in permission, watching the two women with a perplexed cast to his face. Mhairi seemed well suited to her armor, the fit such that the knight appeared as one that was comfortable in such gear no matter the situation. The queen, suited up in fine leather, seemed less so. It was not a cumbersome set by any measure, but Gerod could far more easily imagine those long legs walking away beneath a lavish skirt, even if he shouldn't be imagining the queen in _any_ such way. Certainly not with her husband beside him, and yet, what struck the commander more, was that the woman herself had a sharpness to her words that he never would've guessed at, and the fact that she wasn't pleased had come through clearly before she'd covered it up.

Gwyneth turned about at the last moment, flashing her husband a thin smile. "Oh, and darling, be sure to tell me everything once you've finished your meeting."

As they departed, leaving the men behind, Commander Caron drew his black brows together, glancing at the king. "Highness, forgive me, but I get the impression I might have said something wrong. Her Majesty seemed . . . abrupt."

Alistair snorted, rolling his eyes. "With _my_ wife, who knows." With lowered speech, raising it for his next words. "Now, let's move on to more important things . . . I want to know _exactly_ what happened when you first arrived."

* * *

There were long rays of crimson reaching in through the iron slats set high into the stairwell wall, catching the floating army of dust motes in the damp space. The prisoner sitting inside the cell at the base of the stairs couldn't get a good view of the sunset that caused them from where he was, but he knew it must have been a red one.

"Red sky at night, sailor's delight. Red sky at morning, sailors take warning. That's the old saying isn't it? Think you that it'll be red tomorrow as well? Considering what happened here, I don't imagine it's a good sign of things to come after all." The prisoner's low voice was raspy from lack of frequent water, as he grinned viciously up at the guard.

A glare was earned. "In case you didn't notice, lout, we aren't on a boat, and I don't rightly think your snide remarks are very funny. _Good _men died, while _you_ were all locked up tight in your cell." The guard gritted the words through clenched teeth, fingers flexing at the top of his scabbard, secured to the thin man's hip.

"Well, my presence in this rancid hole you call a jail, is hardly _my_ fault, now is it?"

"I'd damn well say it _is_!" The guard pushed himself up from his chair, almost ready to draw his blade and act out the prisoner's sentence before he'd even been judged. The sound of the door opening above their heads stopped him. "Commander?" He stood straight and saluted briefly, nodding his head at the tall black haired man that approached them. "If you've come to speak to the prisoner, ser, I'll warn you, he's a bit of a wise ass. Hard to talk to for any length of time."

"Maybe for _you_." Came the disparaging retort from behind the bars. "But I don't expect any man personally selected by that traitor, Varel, would be much different."

"Shameless cur!" The guard's face was screwed up into a snarl, the commander's hand at his shoulder the only thing that kept the man's feet from moving towards the cell and the prisoner within.

"I thank you for guarding him, but I'd rather we speak alone." When the guard went to protest, Gerod shook his head, mouth drawn into a lopsided, thin smile. "You should be . . ." He searched for the Fereldish word he wanted. "Commended, for having such patience in dealing with one like this, and I don't want to see it taxed. I'll be fine down here, and make sure we aren't disturbed for at least an hour."

"Yes, Commander." With another brief salute, the man sent a glare over one armored shoulder, before ascending the stairs. Silence followed him, as the two he left behind waited for the sound of the door closing.

"Well, it's nice to see how everyone is scurrying around here, ready to bend over for an _Orlesian_, at his first word. I suppose they think you are their savior. It won't last you know, the people here have loyalties that turn on their heal at a snap of the fingers. You'll see." The warning from the prisoner came with the slow drawl of one that felt assured of their fate, and didn't care much either way. A bored sort of certainty.

Gerod sighed, watching the man behind the bars, sitting against the back wall with one knee up and an arm draped casually over it. _Not a care in the world_. The posture said, but the Warden thought that to be a practiced lie. He couldn't tell much about the other man's appearance from the dingy lighting, the nearest wall torch not reaching very far into the cell. Mostly that he was a lanky sort, with shoulder length dark hair, whether black or deep brown Gerod couldn't tell, and a set of broad shoulders that were slumped in the feigned image of laziness.

The commander chose to ignore any further barbs from the prisoner, knowing them for what they were. He stepped closer to the bars, though didn't go so far as to wrap his fingers around them. "I understand we had some trouble capturing you."

"I'm not as unskilled as your people think most Fereldans are, I'm not one to spend my time sleeping with dogs, chasing some woman's skirts or getting lost in my cups." The prisoner sneered, his disdain for men with such perceived wasteful habits coming through clearly in the man's tone.

Gerod remained unruffled. "I would say that a man that required four of my Wardens to take him down must be skilled indeed, and yet not very intelligent it would seem." He waited for the other man to react, perhaps stand up and shout his defense, thereby coming closer to the bars where the commander could better read his features. Such voiceless honesty in those expressions likely revealing far more than any _words_ Gerod might wring out of him. The prisoner said nothing, shifting only marginally on the dirtied floor. "You refuse to give your name or explain yourself, and so you remain here, when you _could_ be earning back your freedom by working to rebuild the keep that you stole into."

"Stole? Stole!" Finally a reaction, the man who proved to be quite tall and thinner than the commander, rose up and came to the bars. "_You people _are the ones that are the thieves! This place belonged to my family, and now there are traitors and _Orlesians_ crawling all over it!"

"Your _family_? Who _are_ you, to make that claim? In fact, who _are_ you to speak as an affluent man when your appearance does not suggest the same, hmm?" Gerod edged closer, feeling as if some identification was on the precipice.

"My name is Nathaniel, of the Amaranthine Howes, son to a murdered father, brother to one dead sibling and another lost, and little more than a name for people to spit on, now that their loyalties have turned in favor of that bitch and the king's bastard she went and married!"

"You are the son of the late arl?" Gerod's eyes narrowed, the bright blue dark in his suspicions and displeasure. "If that is so, then your father forfeited his right and that of his heirs, to _any_ of this land when he facilitated in high treason against King Cailan, and the planned execution of the honorable Teyrn Bryce Cousland and his family."

"_Honorabl_e!" Nathaniel clenched his teeth together, shaking his head, now revealed to be of hair much like the commander's, the black made more charcoal by the dirty conditions. "You say that as if you know the meaning of the word, and talking like you have any idea what the Couslands were, and yet still are! They would've sold us out to the Orlesians, and look what is standing before me?" The title-less Howe sneered at the man that would decide what was to be done with him. "My father was right."

"Your father was a murderous swine who got what he deserved." Gerod was not without his own venom, but he knew which way the chips lay, and they were not in Nathaniel Howe's favor. "As far as I can see, and that is quite far enough, no? Since I am presented with so . . . disreputable a creature before me now. You speak as if you've been wronged, when you are born of corrupted stock and make accusations against the queen without the bravado to even name her."

Nathaniel smiled, slow, angry and coiling, like a snake in the long grass who suddenly realized how to strike its prey. "It's amusing how you knew exactly who I was talking about. You make it pretty clear where you stand, Orlesian. Let me guess, you've seen _the queen_? Is she here then? Smiling at you with those pretty silver eyes, promising you everything without saying a word? Yes, and how could you _ever_ suspect her to feed you biased information, such a beautiful girl like that? Did she congratulate you on your success already I wonder, did she tell you how strong you were and that she _admired_ you?" He wrapped his long fingers around the bars. "She told my brother the same thing, and he would've died for her, and now . . . he _is_ dead."

"Queen Gwyneth is an honorable woman, and you will speak of her with the proper respect!"

"She's an evil, conniving liar, who's honeyed words are laced with cyanide, and I will _never_ accept any order of hers! She can strip my title, murder my father, steal lands that have been in my family since my ancestors served King Calenhad, and give it to an _Orlesian_, but I will _not_ submit. Not to her, or her pet Warden! So do what you like with me, because I'd rather be hanged than ever 'redeem' myself by helping you build Vigil's Keep by Orlesian standards and watch traitors walk in _my_ home without shame!" His anger vented, Nathaniel almost laughed from the bitter depths of his heart, as broken as the whole of the keep around him. Though _darkspawn_ were not the cause of his own hardships.

Gerod's nostrils were flaring, but he kept his temper, offering the same sour smile. "As you like, _Master_ Howe. I'm sure it won't be any trouble to have a noose made, if you are so inclined to hang yourself from it."


	32. Chapter 32: Counter Play

**Disclaimer:** _"Dragon Age: Origins" and all its expansions and additional content is the property of Bioware and EA Games. Large portions of written content within the game, as well as Dragon's Age: The Stolen Throne, and Dragon's Age: Calling, are the creation of David Gaider. Original scenarios and characters are used under the creative license of the writer, ItalianEmpress1985. No profit is being made and the following story is for entertainment purposes only_

**Words From The Author: **_You hardly see anything of Vigil Keep's interior in the game, apart from some hallways in the earliest part of it, and then the main hall for the bulk of your return trips. Suffice it to say, I've had to come up with my own landscape for the place._

_If anyone doesn't know what rushes are, and for a long while 'I' didn't and assumed they were floor runners of some kind, are actually the pieces of straw and the like that they used to keep the floor from being slippery back in the dark ages. I figured a place as damp as Amaranthine must be would probably use them in a lot of the castles and manors thereabouts. They 'do' have to be changed regularly, so if they're left to sit for a long while they will become stale, so if you see references to 'stale rushes' that's what they are. And that is today's random factoid. :p_

_Gwyneth is particularly vicious and conniving in this chapter, and I can't lie, I had great fun with it. It makes me a little partial to this installment, which comes when Dragon Age II has been released. I wish you all many happy hours of playtime . . . just so long as I don't lose you to Champion Hawke for good. ;) It'll be interesting to see how much in that game throws THIS storyline into the ditch, but I'm looking forward to it. :p_

_**SPECIAL NOTE**__: __Jaffa Snakes__ has made a mini-storyboard/comic for one of the scenes in Chapter 22. I've put the link to it in my profile, listed under extras. It's a very lovely piece, and on the smexy side, and one I think you'll enjoy. Thanks again Jaffa, as well as for the fic recommendation!_

_I also got a Gwyneth/Alistair song recommendation from __Vadte__ on Deviant Art that was ridiculously hilarious and fantastic. Love Me Dead by Ludo. I've put the link to that under 'extras' in my profile as well._

_I've been getting a lot of people adding this story to their favorite and alert lists lately, and I don't want you to feel left out. So thank you, to all of you out there that have added Fate and Forbearance to your favorites or your story alerts. I appreciate it. A big thank you also to __Klarabella__, one of my reviewers. Some little birds told me you recommended this fic to them on a couple of other sites. So thank you very much! :D_

_Short addendum, cause this author's note is OFF THE HOOK already! :O But there is some French in here, however, Gerod translates it himself, so it won't be up here._

_Thank you for stopping in. Watch out for low flying dragons!_

* * *

_**Chapter Thirty Two:**_

_**Counter Play**_

* * *

_She's the hunter, you're the fox._

_Beware of what is flashing in her eyes._

_She's going to get you._

- _Ace of Base_

* * *

June 6'th, 9:31, Dragon Age

**T**hroughout the keep, there was the distant droning noise of industry, punctuated by a shout here and there from whomever had taken up control of what servants had been found, and were willing and able to resume their duties. Gerod might have been embarrassed that he didn't know who such a person was, but he had more important duties on his mind than a full roster of the servants.

Each step with his long legs, ones his mother had once told him belonged to a born hunter long before she could've ever known it would be _darkspawn_ he hunted, seemed to hit the stone and stale rushes upon them heavily. It seemed a lifetime ago since he had seen his family, and those years had settled into the marrow of his bones, making him feel so much older than eight and twenty. There was a weariness to the Warden Commander, now that his adrenaline from his heated meeting with the imprisoned Howe had all but dissipated.

Long hallways branched off from the main room like a bevy of arteries from a slow beating heart, and as Gerod tried to catch his bearings he was reminded quite starkly of Master Voldrik's complaints on human architecture. For the moment, he could sympathize with that point of view. However, Gerod doubted that the dwarf would lament the lack of windows in those cob-web infested halls, or the absence of any decorative scrollwork in the many doorways that the Warden Commander passed by. Ferelden was so unlike his native Orlais, and the farther into the country he entered the more foreign it seemed to become.

Vigil's Keep had been originally erected as a combat post, and so with that purpose it made sense to have a floor plan that invading enemies could not so easily learn, but once the place had been reformed into a residence one would think the structure would be similarly rebuilt. It had not been, and so the tall Orlesian found himself fitting his long form through narrow hallways that he wasn't at all sure were the ones he wanted.

"Lost, Commander?" Varel's voice wasn't overly friendly, but it lacked that sniping note of animosity, and that was certainly something to stack firmly in the positive column.

Gerod paused, turning to observe the older man that had come out of some antechamber. How the seneschal just appeared like that made the commander wonder what kind of combat training he might have had in a past life. Stealth had been involved, almost certainly. He was going to smile kindly at the man, for he _did_ feel grateful for him, but he thought better of it and merely nodded.

"_Oui_ . . . yes, I'm afraid so . . again. I thought I could force myself to learn the layout, but it hasn't happened yet."

"That's understandable. I think the old arl delighted in confusing his guests."

Gerod fidgeted uncomfortably at the other man's words. He knew that Varel had once served the late Arl Howe. Rumor and notification from The Crown suggested that he'd been wronged after standing up for his own beliefs, but the commander wasn't at all certain that it meant Varel would agree with Gerod's own opinion on the man. Though he never knew him and based it on rumor and late presented fact, it had painted a portrait that was very clear to the Orlesian. However, caution would be best at present. "You . . . served the arl for a long time?"

Varel nodded. "I suppose, at least I served his _family_ for a long time. Rendon himself was always a prig, not to cast aspersions on the dead." At that, the aging mouth turned up in one corner. "You know what? The hell with it. Rendon Howe was a bastard, and I'm glad to see this place in different hands." The smile didn't seem to extend to offering such a warm welcome to Gerod Caron in particular, but it wasn't a scowl either. "But that's neither here nor there. What were you looking for, commander?"

Gerod almost grinned in relief that his opinion was somewhat shared, but didn't want to press his good fortune thus far. "The . . . hmm . . . I'm actually not sure what you would call it here in Ferelden." When Varel only raised a brow as he waited for an explanation, the commander tried to do just that. "Ahh . . . the . . . food room? Place to take your breakfast and supper?"

"The dining hall, perhaps?" There was an amused note to Varel's voice, though he refrained from smirking.

"Yes, that is it. Of course, why couldn't I remember _that_?"

"It's fine, Commander. We've all had a long time of things here, and not easy going either. I'd be a liar indeed if I pretended to remember everything, myself." He pointed down the hallway. "You'll be wanting to head back the way you came, and take the first hall on the right. If you get lost after that, just follow the smell of salted pork. It's not the best meal, but I'm told that His Majesty had more than enough to share. At least it's more than we had before. I'm grateful for that."

"Indeed, as we should all be. I thank you, Master Seneschal." With a nod of the two men's heads as their only farewell, Gerod was off again, watching his progress with a pair of wary eyes. He took a whiff of the air, and _did _smile then. Varel had been right, the smell of their sparse but freely given supper wafted down to him from the direction of the dining hall.

A pair of ladies chatting caught him up and he stopped as they seemed to be closing in on him, though it was obvious that neither of them had any intent upon his person.

"You're quite certain it's this way?"

The tenor was light if not low in confusion, the tone quite imperious and Gerod recognized it instantly.

"Yes, Highness." Probably a servant from the Vigil.

"Everything just seems so different from when last I was here."

"Well, they have removed all items once possessed by the Howes." The servant was cautious with her words.

"Thank the Maker for small blessings." Followed by a short trill of dark amusement.

Gerod turned about as shadows were on the walls of the long hall behind him, where it turned at a sharp right angle.

Whatever disposition was painted on the queen's face, it was replaced with a blank canvas as she noticed Gerod standing before them. Her surprise was in turn interchanged with a strained smile. "Commander." Gwyneth nodded her head in brief greeting, her leathers traded for a simple powder blue gown from her luggage, and the commander reinforced his earlier opinion, that it was far more suitable for the woman's elegance than any set of armor could be.

"Majesty." Gerod bowed but made no move to kiss her hand in courtly greeting, since she made no move to present it, as she had in the courtyard.

"You are headed to the dining hall, I assume?" The left brow raised above the other, the eyes beneath not giving any sign of intent behind the question, beyond the obvious.

That room title again, and Gerod was determined to remember so he would not be made to look like a fool. "I am, Highness, and you?"

Gwyneth only nodded, turning one hand upward to dismiss the petite young woman behind her. "I can find my way from here." As the serving girl departed, her footfalls finally echoing away to the distant and muted noise of the keep itself, the pair were left in awkward silence.

"Where is the king, if I may ask?" Gerod thought it a safe enough question, but nearly winced at the sound of his own voice breaking that hushed air around them.

"Already seated with his men, if I know him."

"He did not escort you to dinner?" The commander's second query was a genuine one, the man perplexed that the king wouldn't escort his own wife, as would not only be custom, but with such a lovely woman, should have also been a pleasure. Gerod could admit to himself that if _he_ had such a wife, he would take great enjoyment and pride in bringing her beside him on his arm.

"It wouldn't appear so, would it?" A sardonic grin threatened at the corner of those thin pressed lips, and Gwyneth straightened her posture, still a little unsure of what she should do next. The queen was still irritated with the decision made for the mage from earlier, who quite clearly didn't know what he was getting into. Much as _she_ had been left purposely uninformed those many months ago, when she was conscripted into the Grey Wardens. She would've welcomed the opportunity to tell Gerod all about himself, but now didn't seem the time or place for such a discussion.

"No, I suppose not." Taking her grin for a small boon, Gerod offered his own, careful not to let it become too wide where it would make his long scar seem even worse. He didn't want to scare the woman away. "Perhaps then, if it is not too forward, Her Majesty might consent to a less desirable escort?" He put out his arm, certain that she would refuse it, but at least he had made the effort.

Gwyneth smiled and nodded, irritated with the man, but not to the point that she couldn't enjoy a least some measure of admiration. Especially in the utter absence of it from Alistair. "Why, thank you, Ser Caron. I would consider such an escort not _undesirable_ in the least." Her lashes lay low on her cheeks as she batted them at the man but once, making a show of being demure, that she assumed an Orlesian nobleman might appreciate, careful to keep herself hemmed in by the boundaries of her station.

Gerod flushed, he could feel the warmth and proof of it on his face and tried to quickly master the feeling of pleasure at her acceptance. However, no sooner had he managed that, when Gwyneth laid her hand at his elbow, her fingers sliding delicately down his arm to rest lightly at his wrist, where those same fingers curled. Though their clothing prevented the contact of skin on skin, it did very little to dim the sensation of being touched. The woman was possessed of great presence and when coupled with her stunning beauty, it was a decimating impact and Gerod couldn't deny the effect such a combination had on him, though he knew better than to let it get to his head. He reminded himself of that as they walked, thinking of topics that would put the commander's state of mind where it should have been.

She had seemed cultured, calm and friendly at their first meeting, but by the end of it, there was a taut and quiet anger to her, that seemed to have remained through to the present. Though he was curious as to the cause of the young woman's change of mood, and worried that it might have been some unknown fault of his own, Gerod had to bite back on the acute desire to ask. He had known many noble women before he'd become a Warden, and none of those gentle ladies had ever appreciated being prodded after.

He could have jumped at the surge of thought that hit him, abruptly and with an unspoken chiding of why it hadn't occurred to him to try and apprise the queen earlier. "Majesty, I should inform you that my Wardens caught a thief sneaking into the keep."

"Did they? Thievery is unfortunately common when people are in misery. My father believed that the carrion of suffering brought vultures of every manner to find their feast, many of them the kind that walk on two legs." Gwyneth watched the walls, her eyes passing over old tapestries that she couldn't recall from any of her childhood visits to this place. The serving girl had told her that everything which had belonged to that bastard, Rendon, had been removed. These now strung up sparsely against the gray walls were likely cheap bits from the market square in Amaranthine. As her mind wandered, readying for the mundane conversation Ser Caron had chosen to partake in, she wondered briefly if any of the family items had been hidden away in some vault or the other. She made certain then and there to find out, so she might have them sold and use the money to fund the commander's efforts for rebuilding. If Rendon Howe was watching from the special place afforded him in Hell, that'd be certain to piss him off.

"My Queen, you are smiling." Gerod watched her from the side, his brow furrowed in confusion.

Startled from her vicious thoughts of revenge, beyond the taking of that vermin's life, she managed to sort her features into a mask of embarrassment. "Was I? Oh dear, I _do_ apologize commander. You must find me quite odd. It is simply . . ." Gwyneth paused for effect, going so far as to lower her voice conspiratorially. "I cannot deny my pleasure at seeing this place in much better care than it was previously."

Gerod straightened his shoulders, his grin as broad as it could be, the left of his mouth twitching as if it so desperately wanted to share the expression with the right side and knew it couldn't. "Then Her Majesty has no reason to apologize for her happiness."

"Thank you, Ser Caron . . . but you were saying something about thieves here in the keep?"

"Ah, yes, I was. He managed to survive down there in his cell for the whole of the battle, and though the seneschal was kind enough to send provisions to the man, I had not been able to set aside time for him, until a few hours ago." He kept step with the woman at his side, certain to maintain a slow gait in time with the queen's soft footfalls. "It seems we have a surviving member of the late arl's family, returned here under the guise of a simple thief. He made the rather brave claim without much preamble, though seemed entirely bereft of any regret on his part." As Gerod would've continued to talk, he was forced to stop as the woman behind him stilled.

"_What_?" The look on her face could have curdled milk. "_Delilah_ is wisp of a girl that could no more dress a man and play a thief, than she could sprout wings and fly. _Thomas_ Howe died nobly in battle, defending these lands from the darkspawn. I take it, that it was not a walking corpse you encountered today?"

The Warden Commander was taken aback by the queen's sudden anger, quiet as it was, much as it had been in the courtyard earlier. "I . . . no, no of course not, Majesty."

"_Nathaniel_ . . . " She hissed the name out like an angry snake in the low grass.

"Yes, that was the name he gave me." Gerod unconsciously rubbed the queen's hand where it lay at his wrist. "Good madam, if I have upset you, I give you my sincerest apologies, but I thought you should know."

She felt him rubbing slow circles between her thumb and forefinger, likely without being aware of what he was doing, but the contact wasn't displeasing even if it _was_ inappropriate. Gwyneth slowly moved her hand so that Gerod was forced to realize his actions and cease them in the same turn. She shook her head, turning it away as she sniffled in a sadness that wasn't completely faked. "No, it's not you, commander. I'm sorry . . . I should be able to contain myself." Gwyneth watched him from beneath her lashes, making an effort to look aggrieved, using the genuine melancholy that remained.

It burned within her ribs to think of what Nathaniel might say, what real reason had brought him there, when Gwyneth had wrought a much deserved justice on his father. He would claim otherwise, _'oh yes_!', and during her early reign as queen it was incredibly important to stem the tide of any dark rumors. She had no doubts that Nathaniel would have every ill notion and murderous intent towards her. The eldest of the Howe children had not been any friend to her during the entire time she'd known him, and the low esteem she held _him_ in was likely mirrored two fold against _her_. "I suppose he . . . he said some things about me?"

She was crying, though clearly trying not to, and Gerod was stricken. If he hadn't already planned to send Nathaniel Howe to the gallows, he certainly would _now_. "You don't need to hear what that fiend said of you. All lies and poison that I know were not the truth." Set in his decision, he ground the words out like one sure that he was going to deliver justice down on the wicked. "He will be hanged on the morrow for his treasonous tongue and alliance with the evil of his father."

"Hanged?" Gwyneth looked up, grateful for the tears she had managed to produce, as they masked her shock.

"Yes, and he seemed as if he yearned for death. Perhaps he has reconciled himself somewhere in his heart."

_'And any lies he may have perpetuated will be proven half true but his martyrdom, as the wild man likely sees it! To get away so easily! It vexes beyond belief!'_ Words she would have said were imprisoned behind her teeth, and she nodded slowly, Gwyneth's mind working furiously inside her skull. "Of course . . . justice for his father's crimes, most certainly, if he will not forsake his sire's actions." As she looked at the tall man beside her, she hid her intent well behind her facade. "So, he is still jailed then?"

"Oh yes, Majesty. Don't worry yourself, he's well secured, no harm will come to you."

"I have no doubt of my safety with all these brave men and women around me. He was down in the dungeons where Seneschal Varel said you were fighting darkspawn?"

"Not at all. He's in the building across from there."

"I see." Changing the topic, she smiled forlornly at Gerod. "I do apologize, again, truly. One would think that I could have tempered my loss by now, but the merest mention of that traitor's family and I . . . forgive me." She dabbed at her misting eyes with the hemming of one elongated sleeve, sniffing to further her fine bit of acting.

"There is no need, My Queen. Anyone would find themselves . . . dur pressé, hard pressed to forget what happened to them, were they in Her Majesty's situation." Rich blue eyes, full of sympathy, gazed at the queen, even as she seemed reluctant to turn her face around. When she did, there was a pinkish red about her eyes. "I wish I had some handkerchief in my possession, but I don't at all."

"Oh no, Ser Caron, I'll be alright. Honestly." She offered another smile, this one the mask of self-recrimination. "Though I fear I look a fright for dinner."

He couldn't help the low tenor to his voice, even as he spoke, the veneration in the words couldn't be hidden away so easily. "You look as you have from the moment I first saw you. _Beautiful_." When she raised a brow in surprise, it jolted the Orlesian back to his senses and he started, stumbling over his Fereldish until he found the words that would work best, after silently berating his foolish tongue. "I am very sorry, Majesty, I shouldn't have spoken like that. I was not within my head."

Gwyneth paused, startled for a moment by the open admiration. Perhaps she'd been fighting against darkspawn for so long that she'd lost touch with noble admirers, and though the statement wouldn't be well received in public, she doubted the commander would blurt it out again as he just had. She would take caution, however, not to push him to it, ever worrying about rumors and _public _propriety as she was.

There were far worse things than to have the admiration and loyalty of the new Warden Commander of Ferelden, especially if she wanted to have any footing with which to influence the man. The young queen kept that thought and tucked it away, even as she produced her best shy smile. "No harm done, commander, and how could I dislike the knowledge that my hard work is appreciated? Beauty is, after all, something one must maintain." She lowered her voice as if they were two conspirators, and to any passersby they might very well be, which was all the more reason to move along. Gwyneth would have time for her planning after dinner. "But I would caution you not to repeat anything like that to milord husband. His mood has been . . . uneven, as of late and we would both be better served not to push him to any extremes."

'_A jealous man, then. Well of course, with a wife like the queen, any man would be.'_ Gerod nodded, more to himself than her, and gathered his wits back together. "Of course madame, I am a gentleman after all."

Gwyneth's nodded, pleased, as she let him lead her ahead while they continued walking. "I would never think anything else, Ser Caron. Now, let us hurry to the dining hall. I find that unpleasant topics make me _famished_."

* * *

The brazier, looming large above the simple plank-wood table, looked in tragic disrepair. Ser William Aquitaine looked up at it, as he absentmindedly stirred his bland potato soup with a piece of dried bread, his portion of the salted pork already consumed. He half wondered if the dark red-orange flakes floating in his dinner were bits of seasoning or rust, fallen from the ancient fixture hanging over his head.

"Sire, do you think it's possible to get some kind of poisoning from eating flakes of metal?" He gently nudged the taller man seated beside him on the hard simple bench, no luxury to be found in Vigil's Keep _these_ days.

Alistair raised a brow, his smile equal parts confused and teasing. "Why on Thedas would you want to eat _metal_? When one of those ancient physicians from the chantry says you need more iron in your blood, I don't think they mean for you to _chew _on it."

William raised a spoonful of his soup, giving it a jaundiced eye, before letting it dribble back into the earthenware bowl. "No, but it's something to think on."

He looked about the room, the mood somber but more relaxed than when they had first arrived. Everyone glad to be alive to share a meal, like as not. The murmur of blended voices filled the hall with camaraderie and hunger. Even the simplest fare felt like a banquet to a starving man. Yet, for the relaxation those in the room felt, they were subdued by the presence of their king, and William noted that not many were brave enough to sit at the their liege's table. Though, the only woman in the room had more bravery than most, Ser Mhairi seated two lengths away from him. She caught him watching and inclined her head, offering a brief smile, before her attention was taken away.

"You know, Majesty, we can't stay here too long. I wish we could help these people more, but we have to try and make good time if we're to reach the bannorn, and even then we'll be later than you wanted." William whispered beneath his breath.

The young king sighed and raised his goblet to his lips, pausing before he took a sip. "I know that, Ser Aquitaine." Dark brown eyes watched the people in the room over the rim, his subjects, forlornly. _It was never enough_. "I know." The ale was bitter, and not merely for its taste. "As for other topics, have you heard anything about where Ser Rylock was going?"

"Yes. On your order, Ser Boughton tracked the woman's party for some time, and it seems they were headed for Amaranthine. Perhaps stopping off to get what supplies they can, before journeying back to Kinloch Hold." William related, leaning closer to his king, with a whispered voice. "If I may, Sire, the look on your face suggests that you think otherwise."

Alistair nodded slowly. "I _think_, that a woman so full of hate isn't going to give up just like that. I also think an angry templar can cause a lot of trouble." A sardonic grin was painted on his face as he took another sip, trying to tell himself that his ale was the most tasty thing he'd ever had, but it wasn't working. "And I'm going to advise Commander Caron to watch out for templars dressed as commoners, when he leaves the keep."

William's dark brows nearly met, as he looked agog. "You don't believe Ser Rylock would go to such lengths to disrespect Your Majesty's royal decree on the subject, surely?"

The king's face was cold and certain. "That's _exactly _what I believe."

"Speaking of Ser Caron . . ." William cleared his throat, motioning with a goblet filled hand to one of the many doorways of the large room. "And Her Majesty as well, I thought you said she didn't care for salted pork and wouldn't be coming to dinner."

Alistair's eyes narrowed as he spied the two of them, entering the dining hall . . . together. "That's what _I _thought. Apparently, I was mistaken." He stood from the bench, accompanied by the sound of wood scraping against the stone from the pressure of his legs. A forced smile adorned his face with frightening ease. He was getting better at faking his expressions, which served Alistair well in court matters, but it was very distressing that he could be good at such a thing in the first place. He'd certainly never thought himself to be a fraud, and yet, here he was. "Darling . . ." Even the endearment was mostly free of sarcasm. "What a surprise. You'd said you weren't all that hungry."

What she'd _really_ told him earlier, was that the soldiers and servants were filthy, and she feared contracting dysentery or some other wretched ailment, from dining with them. But repeating the truth of _that _matter in public wouldn't be the best decision.

Gwyneth's smile was saccharine as she disengaged herself from Gerod's arm, nodding her head in thanks to the man, as well as in greeting to those people that looked up at her. "My hunger got the best of me, I must say. You don't think me gluttonous, do you?" Her face was coy and playful, and to the watching audience, might appear flirtatious towards her husband.

He responded in kind, sweeping an arm out for her to sit on his left, the space unoccupied. "Of course not, you're well proportioned at any rate. How could any man complain about his wife's curves?" It was a salacious thing to say, but the flirtatiously bawdy compliment earned a round of well intentioned laughter from some of the king's knights and the soldiers of Vigil's Keep.

The queen blushed, her cheekbones colored with a light pink. Though the dining public probably thought it was bashfulness, it was embarrassment. _'What in the world is the matter with him, talking like that in front of everyone? He did it on purpose!'_ She might have said something, _but what was there to say to that, really_? Instead, Gwyneth gathered her long skirts and tucked them under the backs of her thighs as she sat down. She caught Gerod's eyes as he sat on the other side of the king's table, watching the married pair intently, before he noticed the queen's focus and smiled.

"Commander Caron, I should thank you for escorting my wife. I'd never hear the end of it if I lost her, when all she was trying to do was find her way to the dining hall." Alistair's smile was friendly, but his eyes were dark and sharp. The two of them didn't look inappropriately close when they entered the room and yet . . .

"Not at all, Your Majesty. It was my pleasure, I would _never_ leave a lady to wander the halls. Though I confess, that I myself had difficulty with this place. It seems almost a maze to me." He raised a hand, motioning for a servant to bring him some water.

"Unlike your native Orlais?"

"Quite, yes. Though I find this country has its own beauty."

Alistair turned a dire eye on his wife, who's attention was taken with inspecting the soup placed before her, waiting to see if the commander meant _her_, but the statement was innocent enough. "Yes, it does." He wiped at his face with a handkerchief from the table. "I don't want you to think I'm hurrying you, the Wardens are _your_ business now, but I wondered when you might begin the Joining."

Ser Mhairi looked up at that, peering closely at her new commander in great interest. She didn't know much about the ritual, having been told its secrets were meant for the order.

Caught out, Gerod paused, a hand lain at the edge of his serving bowl before he could tip it to dip the spoon in. "Ah . . . well, there are the matters of securing the keep. I wouldn't want any _more_ thieves sneaking in here."

"_More_ thieves?" Alistair raised a dark blonde brow at that, finding Gwyneth's fingers across his to take his hand, the look on her face one of melancholy.

"Yes, darling, it seems Rendon Howe's son, Nathaniel has found his way back to Amaranthine, and meant to _relieve_ Vigil's Keep of its possessions." She shook her head. "Such a pity, nobles lost, and instead of finding a way to replace the honor forsaken by their family, they instead choose to perpetuate their inherited disgrace."

"Don't trouble yourself, My King, I have the matter in hand, and he'll be on the hangman's noose tomorrow. Though that isn't all of my duties. I am sorry to say that I don't think I'll be able to begin the Joining for a few more days yet, though I will be taking my recruits under hand and teaching them more techniques against the darkspawn. I won't hurt matters any, no?" Gerod tried to look aloof, the displeased expressions forming on King Alistair's face doing little to bring the Warden Commander peace of mind.

Alistair felt like a morass of information had been dumped on him, like so many unwanted correspondences, and knew for certain that no matter the simple way this Nathaniel's presence was relayed, that Gwyneth was thinking something behind those sharp silver eyes. Though he bore no love for the late arl, and had been there when the man was executed, he wasn't at all certain about the character of any other member of that family. However if Gerod Caron believed the man to be worthy of hanging, then maybe the apple hadn't fallen far from the tree.

"I'm sure that's all true, but that's not why I was asking, more because I have something for you. Consider it a welcome gift." Whatever suspicions Alistair may have had with the man's interest in his wife, it had long been his intention to gift the new commander with something, and the most fitting thing he could give him was secured with the king's items still. "I have Commander Duncan's Joining chalice, I found it, hidden in rubble at Ostagar when . . . " Alistair paused, remembering too keenly the feeling of going back to that place, the pale of cold clammy death still clinging to the ancient stones. "When Her Majesty and I returned there. It's fitting that you have it now."

It felt strange to speak of Duncan by his position with the Wardens, when he had been so much more to Alistair. There were times that the young king worried that he'd put too much importance on that relationship, where he thought that maybe his desperation to be accepted made him cling to the first person to really offer that kind of unity, but no. When he looked back with his mind's eye, he could never think that Duncan thought him too attached.

Though it _had_ been his intention to give Commander Caron the chalice, somehow, now that he'd said the words, he was worried. The only inkling on the Orlesian's character was what Alistair could glean from the correspondences that had been sent to the royal palace, and the brief discussion he'd had with the man and Seneschal Varel. Those that survived the darkspawn attack on Vigil's Keep seemed to mostly respect their new leader, a man who for all intents and purposes was their new arl. It wasn't as if Gerod Caron was only responsible for the Wardens, a luxury that Duncan had mostly enjoyed. This Warden Commander also had to take care of the locals. It was a new and untested position that the former imperial knight had taken up without complaint_. But what if he _did _have complaints, what if he didn't want the damn chalice and didn't understand the importance that it had once belonged to his predecessor_? Alistair didn't know how he'd react to that.

Gerod blinked, willing himself not to choke in surprise on the less than magnificent ale he was served. "Ah . . . _Ce n'est pas nécessaire _. . . pardon, that is to say, you don't need to do that. I wouldn't want to take something of value away from you. Her Majesty wrote me once to say you and your commander were quite close."

The Orlesian Warden wasn't the only one surprised, as Alistair widened his eyes in his wife's direction, though the woman in question only offered a short smile and a wave of her hand. As if to say _'nothing to see here, move on_.' "She _did_?"

"Well yes, though nothing improprietous. I understand Duncan was your mentor as well as your commander, and if the chalice he used for his Joining rituals would be of sentimental value to Your Majesty, I certainly don't want to rob you of it." Those blue eyes watched the king carefully, not sure if this was a test of his allegiance or not. Orlesians weren't trusted in Ferelden, and Gerod wasn't going to confuse the gratitude of the people for his timely arrival at the keep, with any sort of loyalty or good feelings towards him beyond that. His position could prove most tenuous at present.

Calmly, and with more patience than he was feeling, Alistair pressed his fingers together as his hands steepled at the edge of the table, smiling at the man seated opposite. _Why was it that no one thought he could be certain about his own decisions?_ "Commander Caron, I am the King of Ferelden, my job now is to take care of my people. The chalice won't help me with that, and yes, I was close to Duncan for the short time that I was lucky enough to know him. Saying that, I don't want his chalice to collect dust on display. I _want_ you to have it, and you'll honor me, _and_ Duncan, by accepting it."

Gwyneth watched the exchange closely, curious as to what would happen without her interference. In the short months of his reign, she found that Alistair had proven himself capable of decision making, even if he frequently needed assistance. There was a certainty about him that she would never have guessed at, and it was her curiosity that won over the worry that he could muck up a new alliance with the commander.

Marking his words in his mind before he said them, Gerod nodded slowly, tipping his goblet towards the king as if in a toast. "Then, my great honor it will be indeed, as you say. His Majesty is very magnanimous to offer it."

Not sure if humility or self assurance would be the better response, Alistair opted for a bit of both. "I have my moments."

Meanwhile, neither man was aware of the queen's thoughts, as she used their interaction to make decisions for her own future. As Gwyneth hid her smile in her goblet, she thought that it could be _most_ promising, if she was careful.

* * *

The prisoner couldn't be sure of the hour, the only window set so high into the stairwell that he was deprived even a view of the sky. If he shifted just so he might be lucky enough to catch a glimpse of that lowest horizon, but late into the night, even that was nothing but a black expanse of shadow through the buildings that blocked his view through the bars. The cell stunk of the stale rushes on the floor and the equally stale bedroll he had been afforded, though the 'charitable' nature of his captors had prompted them to bring him a clean bucket of water with which to wash himself up. The irony of it was not lost on him, since he would only be just as filthy after laying wet and ragged on the sparse bedding.

Tonight was the last night of Nathaniel Howe's life, and it was to be no more pleasant than any night since he'd returned to Ferelden. News of his father's death, and his families titles being stripped, had reached him in the Free Marches long after the great battle of Denerim had ended. He wondered now, how long he had hunted in those ungoverned wilds, reveled in a freedom beyond the restrictions of his noble title, while all that he thought he was free of, had been stolen away by the traitorous Cousland heirs.

He could have laughed, barking and sharp, like pieces of shale rock crumbling down the hillside. So long he'd yearned to have his own life, and make his own way. _Let Thomas have the arling, since he wanted it so badly_. Now, all he wanted was to have it back, all of it. Every last stone of Vigil's Keep.

Tomorrow he would see the sky, he would taste the air, and then death would take him. Nathaniel was no fatalist, but he knew in his heart that at least then, he'd be free of the evil that had stolen his family home away from its rightful owners. Free of the lies told of his father, and the shame that he hadn't been able to do anything about any of it. Even in trying to get pieces of his legacy back, he had failed in that, being caught by those wretched Orlesians.

He only wished he had been able to see Delilah one last time, his brother already waiting for him at the Maker's side, along with their murdered father.

There was a knock at the door to the building, Nathaniel's guard dozing in his seat, a deck of cards splayed across the basic table in an abandoned game of solitaire. The man snored, jostling himself after the noise, before another knock finally woke him. He roused slowly, looking dazed, before he sent a glare in Nathaniel's direction, straightening his tunic as he climbed the long stairwell.

'_Another changing of the guard then. How exciting.'_

"Ma'am" The guard sounded confused, his body blocking the other person in the now open doorway. Nathaniel could see it was misting outside, which explained the dampness in his cell. He strained his ears to listen to the woman's reply, but he could barely make out the murmur. "I . . . are you sure? I was suppose to watch him until the morning shift." The guard shifted, his chainmail too noisy over the quiet down in the practical hole Nathaniel was in. Then a "Yes, Ma'am. I'll be back shortly."

The only female soldier among the ranks that he knew of was Sergeant Maverlies, the others were all underlings and he doubted the guard would have deferred to such a person. What the sergeant may have wanted with him, he wasn't sure. Nathaniel was wearied of the world, the feeling of accepting his defeat almost peaceful, and he couldn't stomach the idea of any more complications arising. _Just let the morning come, already!_

Whoever it was, practically hid themselves in a long cloak, a deep purple that would surely anger the queen if she ever caught them at it, their face inside the shadows of a wide cowl. Even from the distance she held, the woman smelled enticingly clean, the fragrance of fancy soap and flowery powder that reminded Nathaniel of lilacs in early spring. An almost cruel reminder of life and finer things, that would be lost to him on the morrow. She stood on the second to last stair, a pale hand held that cowl close to her face, so he purposely couldn't see her. Beneath that cloak, however, he caught the glimpse of a simple gown, but a gown nonetheless. It wasn't likely the sergeant then.

Her silence was eerie, and he hated that she stood there, observing him as if watching some strange manner of insect, unsure if she would be safe from its sting. A perverse thought occurred to Nathaniel then, as he remembered tales his father had told him, of lesser noblewomen visiting prisoners that were set for the gallows, hoping to offer them a last evening of sexual release, though more to slake the woman's own dark desires. He sniggered at that, shuffling at the back of his cell, as he tried to get comfortable.

"Madame, I assure you, that I have absolutely no desire for conjugal relief before my sentence is carried out. So, whomever you are, you should return to your husband, or your stable hand if it so suits you, because you won't find an outlet for your perversities _here_ tonight."

There was a laugh from her that surprised him, and was somehow familiar in the vicious and pompous sound of it. "_Master_ Nathaniel, you can go to your grave most certain, that I wouldn't touch you to kill you, lest I invite some pox upon myself. After all, who knows what nasty swamps you've wandered in the Free Marches, and what women whose swamp like 'waters' you've partaken of."

"_You_ . . ." Nathaniel stood, going to the bars and wrapping his hands around them as if he could break free and kill her. Even before she drew back her cowl, he knew who it was. There was little worry that the queen would be angry with the woman for wearing royal purple, since it _was_ the queen that stood before him.

"Hello, Nathaniel." Gwyneth smiled in dark enjoyment of his predicament, one most deserved in her opinion. "I take it that accommodations have proven hospitable? Your father would approve, I think, though the way he treated _his_ guests in the dungeons of the Kendall Estate was a great deal worse."

She was goading him, as she took delicate steps down to the floor, pausing to tilt her head as she observed him, that hateful smile remaining on her face. Oh, how he longed to wipe it off, with his boot knife, but all his weapons were locked away from him. He refused to play her head games, and met her grin for grin. "The guard didn't refer to you by title, and you're all hidden up in that cloak. So, is this the _great_ Gwyneth Cousland, prized diamond of Highever, sneaking out from her husband at night to crow her victory in a dank cell chamber, ashamed that others might know of how much of a bitch she really is? How the mighty have fallen." He tsked in obtuse mock sympathy.

Instead of the glare he'd hoped to earn, she only shrugged, tucking back a ringlet of hair that was still the color of dried blood. Nathaniel found that appropriate at least, for all her similarities to the prophetess Andraste, she was a wicked girl, who was responsible for the death of persons far better than she could ever be. There were tales that she'd actually _fought_ during the Blight, but from what little Nathaniel knew of that situation, he found that hard to believe, but he wanted to see her scarred, to know that she had somehow suffered. Instead she looked as damnably flawless as ever, and it made him hate her even more. _How _dare_ the Maker allow that fraud to wander around, untouched and unchanged, while she plotted, and deceived and murdered_!

"I told him not to say anything that would reveal who I was to you, not before I could see you for myself."

So the 'Ma'am' he had heard was in deference and not so much confusion. Nathaniel thought of better ways to get under her skin, because he'd be damned before he let her do the same to him.

"I doubt very much that anyone would think of me as any servant or soldier. I would comment that I wish I could say the same of you, but that would be a lie. It brings me great pleasure to see you where you belong, filthy, ragged and looking ever so common." Gwyneth took a seat in the guard's abandoned chair, sweeping her cloak out of the way and crossing her ankles, hands folded demurely in her lap as if this were nothing more than some enjoyable afternoon tea with one of her ladies. "I wonder, how much you want to be out of there so you can strangle me, and yet there is no escape for you, plain Nate. They tell me you will be hanged tomorrow, for refusal to condemn your father's actions."

"And why _should_ I condemn them? He was right! All that time, Bryce pretended to be a loyalist when he was really working with the Orlesians. I shouldn't be surprised, after he married that half-breed, Eleanor." He smiled in victory when she sat up straight in the chair, her face changing into a snarl.

"My mother was of the Davenports! A prestigious _Fereldish_ family, and my grandmother was a fine woman, Orlesian or no, who gave up her countrymen to marry my grandfather, one of those great men that saved this country from its oppressors! Your uncle did just as well. Yet you and your sire seemed to forget what loyalty means! It was _Rendon Howe _that was the pretender, cozying up to my father and acting as his friend for _decades_. All that time, Rendon grew more and more jealous of my family, and in his cowardice, waited until my brother left with most of Highever's soldiers! He sent his own men in the night to slaughter us as we slept!" Her cheeks were flaming red in her heated anger. "My nephew, Oren, was only _five years _old. Lain there, on the carpet with his throat cut open!" To her horror, Gwyneth realized she'd begun to weep, hot angry tears stinging her cheeks. There would be no doubt that he knew he'd gotten to her now, but it couldn't be helped. "Tell me, Nathaniel, do you believe _he_ was in league with Orlesian spies as well?"

He almost softened at that, the murder of a child who could only ever be innocent, was nothing he approved of, but it wasn't his _father's_ doing. "I'm sorry for that, but those were the actions of soldiers that were lost in bloodlust. It doesn't deny the fact that your family deserved what it got!"

Gwyneth laughed darkly, swiping at her tear stained face. "No, that would be _your_ family. My husband happily signed the writ that stripped the Howes of any noble ties. You can thank your _precious_ papa for the loss of what good came out of your lineage. When Thomas died, that was last of any truly noble blood. Your milksop sister certainly doesn't have any."

"Don't you _dare_! Delilah was scorned by you and that bitch, Aurelia Hascal, all her life, just because she refused to play people the way you two did! And you have no right to talk about Thomas like you ever gave a fucking flying fig about him! He loved you, and you spit on that, grounding his affection under your fancy shoes while you set your sights on the king."

"Oh, spare me your melodramatics! Your brother was my friend, and I lament that we grew apart, but we were children, that's all. Two children that flirted about with each other, and nothing more! You only wish that it was so, so you can continue to believe I'm some villain in all this!"

"You _are_ a villain! You're a demon with a saint's face, and there's no one left alive now who can see you for what you _really_ are, no one but me!" He smiled darkly, relaxing back into the certainty of his fate. "I wouldn't worry though, tomorrow you need never think on me again and I won't have to live to see you ruin this country."

As soon as Gwyneth's lips drew up into a cat-like grin, Nathaniel knew he had erred somewhere. "Is that so, _Master_ Howe? Is that why you don't fear the noose, you think it is salvation from your 'suffering'? I must confess, I imagined you would be as much of a coward as your father, and yet, Commander Caron told me you seemed reconciled to your fate. I think I understand now."

"You understand nothing, _Gwyny-Gwyn_." He trilled her nickname in a rough mockery, leaning against the bars. "Leave me be, surely you've had enough by now, and tomorrow we can be done with this. My fate is sealed."

"Is it indeed?" Gwyneth tapped her long fingers against her chin in contemplation, eyeing Nathaniel steadily. "So easy for you, isn't it? A long drop on a short rope and it's all over with. You need not answer for anything after that and yet . . ." She fiddled with the cards on the table, almost absentmindedly. "Fate is a fickle lady, as wont to change her mind as any of us women, but one thing is certain. Tomorrow shall prove eventful, for us _both_." She rose from the seat, gathering herself back together, and nodding at Nathaniel politely as if they got along just fine. "You're right though, I've had enough of your bile, and should leave you to stew in it as you will. Good evening to you, Master Howe. Sleep well."

He glared after her, until well past the closing of the door at the top of the stairs. His eyes fell on the guard's table and the cards there, the one on top a royal card. The Queen of Spades.


	33. Chapter 33: Middle Ground

**Disclaimer:** _"Dragon Age: Origins" and all its expansions and additional content is the property of Bioware and EA Games. Large portions of written content within the game, as well as Dragon's Age: The Stolen Throne, and Dragon's Age: Calling, are the creation of David Gaider. Original scenarios and characters are used under the creative license of the writer, ItalianEmpress1985. No profit is being made and the following story is for entertainment purposes only_

**Words From The Author: **_This note is a little longer than some others because of a translation list, so don't feel too intimidated, it's just the spacing. :p Also, I had this chapter ready for you guys and gals a few days ago, but the server wouldn't let me edit F&F for some unknown reason, but now it's fixed, so yay! :D_

_Sooo . . . I've made it through my first DA2 game, and it actually doesn't mess up this story much, with the exception of a few minor things, but that's alright. I think mostly, the only thing that is hard to work around is the time table. Which you all know, if I have to change the time table, I bloody well will! :D So, going forward, I will simply say that I will work in as much of the DA2 characterizations and content as I can, but if it doesn't work in this story, then it just doesn't work. For instance, having seen the cameos of certain characters, I think my own development with them will be quite different, but I don't plan on changing my mind to suit said cameo game appearance. I have a set idea for what I want to do, and that's what will be done, otherwise I think this story would take a turn for the worse. Thank you all so very much, who have played and continue to play DA2 and still drag yourself away to read my ramblings. I'm always grateful, and also to my readers who haven't played. I am no less grateful for your continued interest. Thank you, all you darling people._

_I was wary of giving Gwyneth more than one language, because usually the Mary-Sue filth I've come across, and still escaped with my marbles intact ;), had their 'perfect' main character proficient at a bevy of languages, like a Rosetta Stone Barbie. So I gave this a serious amount of consideration, but in keeping with her 'Teyrn's Daughter and Political Ingénue' persona, I suppose she might have had a nice classical education that at least let her learn the languages of the primary and most political countries. Which I would consider to be Orlais, Tevinter and Antiva, in line with the dances of those countries, cuisines, customs etcetera. Like any good girl raised a perspective bride of a high profile nobleman should be. :p I wouldn't imagine she's an expert at the delivery or the accent however, it's not like she spent any great amount of time in any of those countries. So, if you see her spouting some Orlesian here, know that I didn't pull it out of thin air, and I hope it comes across as a natural thing for her to know. If it doesn't, then by all means, let me know. I'm unafraid of constructive criticism. *flexes muscles like Popeye after eating a can of spinach* Well, I would if I had muscles to flex. :p_

_Also, Gwyneth and Alistair 'really' get into it this chapter, and there's some foul language. Not that it's unusual in an 'M' rated fic, but it's more crass than either the king or queen typically are, but somehow, propriety and vanilla words didn't quite get across the sense of that scene. When you're hot, you're hot, when you're not, you're not, and when you're mad on the Defcon 1 level, sometimes cussing like a sailor is good therapy. ;) You'll see when you get there, but fair warning, just in case you are in a place where you don't want adult language on the screen._

**_Small but Not Unimportant Addendums. _**

_Comte and Comtesse (male and female respectively) are the French versions of Count and Countess. I think of a Comte in Orlais as like a Bann in Ferelden._

_Gerod Caron's home city is Saint Talon, but I've never seen anyone ever type out the 'saint' in cities of similar name, so I went with St. instead. I just want to be sure no one thinks he's always talking about Talon Street, the city's more than one avenue. :p_

_Though not a translation, just a wee reminder here. Tevene is the ancient language of the Tevinter Imperium. But the language of modern Tevinter is Tevalian, as are the people from there (at least in this story), though they might still be called Tevinters by those that aren't too partial to the country, and a lot of bad blood still exists I think._

**_French = English translations. _**_(You might want to post this to a word pad while you read or at least keep it handy, because there's quite a bit of French in here, probably incorrect to native speakers, (damn you, bing translator!) but it gets Gerod's Orlesian character across better I think, and makes him seem genuinely Orlesian instead of just some guy that happens to be from Orlais. I think Alistair isn't put off by it, because he got used to Leliana occasionally leaking Orlesian. I've listed them here in the order they appear in the chapter.)_

_Pitoyable, confus, Guilleme! = Poor/Pitiable, confused, Guilleme! (latter is a person's name)_

_Dégoûtant = Disgusting._

_Morceau de merde = Piece of shit_

_Putain = Whore_

_En enfer avec cela! = To hell with this!_

_Je ne peux pas croire ce qu'il m'a dit, que je ne peux pas! = I cannot believe what he told me, I cannot!_

_Ce qu'a dit ? Dis moi, Ser Caron, veuillez. = What was said? Tell me, Ser Caron, please._

_Vous parler de Orlaisence? = You speak Orlesian? (I made up the Orlesian word for Orlesian, I don't think 'Francais' would work ;) )_

_Vous continuer à surprendre moi, Gwyneth de'Highever = You continue to surprise me, Gwyneth of Highever._

_Mon père m'avait engagé pour le Marquis de'Montfort, pendant une courte période = My father had me engaged to the Marquis of Montfort, for a short time._

_Mon père savait déjà Orlaisence, une nécessité pour les transactions en politiques, mais j'avais tout juste commencé. Après l'engagement, il a été renforcée. Je m'excuse que c'est tellement épouvantable = My father already knew Orlesian, a necessity for political dealings, but I had only just started. After the engagement, it was reinforced. I apologize that it is so awful._

_Discutable = Moot_

_Thank you for stopping in. Watch out for low flying dragons!_

* * *

_**Chapter Thirty Three:**_

_**Middle Ground**_

* * *

**A**listair rubbed his thumb over the engravings in the dark silver of the chalice, the raised design old and worn but carved deeply enough to still be prominent. He looked at it, memorizing every aspect of the thing before he gave it away.

Standing on one of the many battlements overlooking the lower courtyard of Vigil's Keep, the world still seemed small for the uncertainty in the king's mind.

He was still a Grey Warden, because once you joined them, you couldn't just decide you weren't one anymore. It was in your blood, it was in your soul, and your heart pounded each beat with every step that brought you to your duty. Yet, for all that Alistair knew those things, it seemed like a technicality anymore. Every task that he once would've taken part in during the Blight, was handed off to Gerod Caron, now that it was over, and the king couldn't even stay to witness the Joining. _Just how could he be considered a Warden when he was barely involved?_ The weight of holding The Crown had consumed his life. It had consumed his love for Leliana, his dreams, and the future as a Warden that he had thought was certain to be his.

As he looked out over the dusky landscape, blinking through the mist as he took shelter beneath one of the overhangs, he knew it wasn't the first time he had those thoughts. Tonight, though, seemed like one of the worst. Maybe it was because there'd been no fighting when they'd arrived at the Vigil, what help the king's retinue offered, made only after the fact. That feeling of watching others battle while he only commanded from on high, remained, more prominent with each setting of the sun. He had nothing to do with all his confusion and frustration, no one to talk to about his lost sense of self. _Gwyneth_ certainly wouldn't understand.

She had never wanted to be a Grey Warden in the first place, those first few months after her Joining filled with her complaining, so much so in fact, that there were times Alistair thought he'd lose his mind from her caterwauling about it. Though, in the end _he_ hadn't dared to lead anyone anywhere, not after Ostagar. For all her unhappiness, _she_ had led them forward in _his_ place, her lack of fighting skill and military strategy covered by a frightening tenacity and talent for politics that only made Alistair's head hurt.

However, none of that could change the facts.

_He_ was now the leader, and she was his support in the public eye, and his utmost frustration in private. Gwyneth loved her new role and embraced it willingly, from what he could see, while Alistair was still wondering why he'd ever agreed to be king in the first place. If not for the good he was able to affect in the country, he might've said it wasn't worth the headache. She could never know what it was like for him, because they'd never wanted the same things out of life. Gwyneth would be more than glad to forget she was ever a Warden, but that same notion made Alistair ache.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair, and rubbing the palm against his rough lower cheek. Sooner or later, Alistair would have to reconcile himself to a world that had shifted and changed around him, the place he once had belonging to another.

"Majesty? Ah, there you are. Master Varel told me you would be here, 'surveying the battlements' I believe he said. Forgive me for not coming to speak with you sooner, I am used to being officially summoned to meetings like these." Gerod shifted on the balls of his feet, his armor put away for the evening, to leave him in his gentleman's tunic, breeches and a thin grey cloak.

Alistair looked at the man over his shoulder before turning around, his back leaning against the stone wall behind him. "Yes, well, this isn't an 'official meeting' or anything, and things are a bit more informal around here."

"I'm beginning to see that, yes." A sardonic grin was on the commander's face, but he quickly sobered at the serious cast that the king wore. "All is well, Sire?"

"Not really, Ser Caron, but it's _my_ burden." With a watery and half hearted smile, he held out the Joining chalice in both hands, cupping it as the offering that it represented. "I had one of my men get this from my luggage. I'm sure it was unhappy in there anyway, stuck between some old books and a wrapped up block of Nevarran cheddar. I hope it doesn't smell of cheese."

Gerod raised a dark brow at that, accepting the gift with no small amount of caution. "Cheese?" Though it felt very awkward to do so, Gerod took a sniff. "No, Sire, just old metal, mostly." As he looked up, he saw the king grinning at him. "Ah! It was a joke, no? Now I see." The punch line no longer had its effect after that, but Gerod tried to smile anyway, even if he didn't particularly get the king's brand of Fereldish humor.

Once the initial whimsy of it was lost in the other's man late understanding, it seemed less humorous and Alistair soon sobered. Each of them stared at the chalice, as if finding their own meaning in the thing while moments of silence ticked by, filled only by the sounds of the dying evening.

"Thank you, Majesty." Gerod found his voice first, his thoughts on the magnitude of the offering muted, as he imagined it was what King Alistair wanted. He couldn't claim to know him well, but he seemed a kind sort, though uncomfortable with overt gratitude for such kindness. "I will honor this gift as you've honored _me_ by offering it."

"Like I said, it's better off with you, than sitting somewhere in the palace on display. Nobody would really know what it was anyway. One of my chamberlains would probably think it was a wine goblet that someone had gotten mischievous with and purposely misplaced." There was aloofness to Alistair's voice, but he felt sad at how likely that really was. So few of those outside the order knew what it meant to be a Grey Warden, and of those that _did_ know, even less held them in the same esteem as the new king did. For now they might have a boost in their importance to Ferelden, _but how long would _that_ last?_ People had a tendency to forget things, when their need for them ended. To his surprise, the commander laughed.

"Pauvres, confus, Guilleme!' Gerod grinned as broadly as he could. "My manservant, when I was boy, from Tevinter. I was always running away with his Antivan tobacco. It smelled nice in the box it came in, but the pipe smoke was dégoûtant! I had him half convinced my eldest brother was taking it, to go impress his friends by smoking. Once, I stuffed the whole box in the cook's cupboards and she almost gave him a knock around the head, '_stink up my kitchen, you Tevalian bastard_!' Ah, but I laughed until I was hoarse." Caught up in his memory, his Fereldish blending with his Orlesian, he finally noticed the king's confusion. "Pardon, Majesty. You, speaking about your chamberlains, it reminded me of home. My mind wanders, almost as much as _I_ do."

"Do you miss it?"

The unexpected question got a raised brow from the Warden Commander. "Yes Majesty, I suppose I do, but there's no place for me in St. Talon anymore. Who I was? I cannot be that man again, but yes, sometimes I miss it. I was a nobleman's son for two decades of my life, it isn't possible to just forget."

Alistair nodded, closing his eyes to the feel of the damp mist making a concerted effort to soak into his purple cloak. "I know exactly what you mean, well not the nobleman's son part . . ." King Maric was there, in portrait and stone bust, the only remaining image that Alistair had of the father that had abandoned him to the care of another. The few living glimpses allowed the young bastard prince, were all but a haze of a tall faceless man with hair blonder than his own. "Then again, maybe I do, in my own way."

Gerod snorted at the understatement, grinning in spite of himself. "I would imagine so, no? Your father was a _king_, mine is only a _comte_. Certainly with his own, how do you say, clout? But nothing like yours, Sire."

With almost all the companions Alistair had during the Blight knowing how he was raised, he'd forgotten that a lot of people had little to no idea. He'd heard plenty of romanticized versions from citizens that wanted to make their new king's history a grand tale to tell their children. If only some of those stories were the truth, though he had a good sarcastic laugh, and a sense of horror, at such tales that depicted some star-written romance between himself and his queen. '_Boy, wouldn't those storytellers be surprised to know the truth!' _Though he suspected Gerod knew more than he was letting on, but had courtesy enough not to try and bring up anything he worried would be a sore topic.

He also couldn't deny that it felt nice to just talk, without the heavy weight of politics boring him into the ground, but even so, Alistair took care to not say something too off color. "Your parents are still alive? It must be nice to have that . . . family, I mean."

"Does His Majesty not have family? You have two uncles, yes? Not with your blood perhaps, but that is not so important." Gerod shrugged, the conversation a balm for his nerves, and his old self assurance flooded in to take the place of political wariness. "One of my own uncles is not actually my uncle at all. My father took him in as his brother, though they shared no blood. His family was killed, here in Ferelden during thee . . ." He paused, suddenly tense all over again, blue eyes shifting back and forth. "Ah, the occupation. Majesty, I apologize, I don't want you to think that I bear some kind of grudge, and certainly don't want _you_ to bear a grudge against _me_."

Alistair smiled sadly, a lovely copper haired Orlesian maiden smiling in his memory, her blue eyes shining at him with a love that he never really thought he deserved. "I know first hand that there are good Orlesians, so, if you think I'll hold something against you for that, I won't."

There was something in the king's gaze, haunted and aching, that made Gerod frown, the unspoken answer to the other man's melancholy making the commander feel strange to be standing there. As if he was witnessing a private and intimate moment of memory that he was never meant to even know about. Though, it was comforting indeed to know that the King of Ferelden was an open minded sort. "I'm glad for that, Your Majesty."

Not willing to stay on that same topic, Alistair gestured at the Warden. "You know, Duncan used to tell me that the Grey Wardens stay out of politics, but there, at Ostagar, I think he knew that it couldn't stay that way. I hope you are ready for this post, because it won't be easy, and I don't know how the First Warden will react to it."

Gerod crinkled his nose as if he'd smelled something rotten, forgetting in his displeasure, that he shouldn't divulge too much. "Pfah! There should have been a new First Warden _ages_ ago, but that morceau de merde holds on to his seat of power like a man to his favorite putain! I would spit on him, given half the chance. The Anderfels are practically _ruled _by the Grey Wardens of Weisshaupt." He turned dark blue eyes on the king, their color darkened further by the roiling anger of his thoughts. "They aren't the same as you and I, Majesty. They _say_ that we should stay free of politics, but in practice, they _thrive_ within the maelstrom of them." The commander looked out at the courtyard, his _own_ seat of power, where he'd find himself embroiled in a political ocean, whose crashing waves he'd far rather avoid. "But you are right, this new world demands that the Grey Wardens can stay neutral only so far. There are points, I fear, where we cannot help but be involved. Our order is changing, I think, as must all good men in times of strife."

Alistair nodded, sighing as he let his weight lean back into the stone. "My queen has politics in her _blood_. I'm more than sure that's the reason Duncan had her conscripted. I suppose I should be thankful for that, she has seen traps at times, that I wouldn't have guessed were even there at all."

"Her Majesty was _conscripted_? What I heard of her, she joined the order to prove that her family still had honor, after Arl Rendon Howe tried to steal it from them with their deaths." It almost sounded absurd to Gerod in his own ears, though he'd heard the tale many times over, and had no reason to discount it. Certainly since there were far more ludicrous stories out there of the king and his bride.

"Hah! Gwyneth plays the damsel as well as she plays the heroine, depending on which audience she has. She _hated_ Duncan for conscripting her, she even told me she tried to kill him in his sleep after they escaped from her home when it was besieged. Not that she could anyway." Suddenly his anger at his wife was there, and though he knew that he shouldn't be spouting off about her to just anyone, he couldn't help it. "Her father made her promise, with his dying breath, that she would avenge them and find her brother, prove the Cousland worth. I suppose in the end, that's why she stayed. A very dramatic tale, though I doubt as heroic as what _you_ heard." The smile on Alistair's face was tired and bitter. "She's attractive isn't she, my wife? She nods and coos and says all the right things until you are eating out of her hand."

Gerod's cheeks felt warm, as he was caught out, turning his head away. "Majesty . . . I . . . ."

"No, don't apologize. It's _her, _hanging on your arm as she pretends to hang on your every word. I'm sure she made herself look like the damsel in distress, to appease to your gentleman's nature, just as I'm sure you believed it. I'm _married_ to her and even _I_ buy into the act sometimes. But Teyrn Cousland gave her a pair of nasty short swords, and she's still not that great with them, honestly. I half think it's sheer luck and dirty tricks that got her through most of our battles, she cheats like _mad_ whenever I spar with her. However, don't think for a moment that Gwyneth is defenseless, that all she did during the Blight was give orders while the rest of us protected her as our leader, and whatever you do, don't make the mistake of turning your back on her." He snorted in disgust, the dumbfounded expression on the other's man face evident, but he was too wearied to apologize, and it felt good to talk about her, to let someone know that she was a viper.

"_Your Highness_! Why would you tell me that?" Gerod barely knew what to say. Her ran a hand over his face, unable to look at the king at all for his shocked embarrassment.

"Because it's the truth, and I don't want to see someone ruined the same way I've been." Feeling haggard and wearied to the bone, Alistair's shoulders sagged with an unseen weight. "I should go, before I say more than I have already."

His booted footsteps hit the damp stones, hands pressed at the edges of a tall archway that would lead him back into the keep. Alistair waited for a few seconds, catching his breath, stolen away by his anger as it was. Gerod remained in stunned silence behind him, and all that was said couldn't be taken back.

* * *

He wasn't certain how much time he'd been standing out there. It could have been an hour, or more, or less. Gerod had stopped counting the minutes, his mind too confused to comprehend the passage of time at any rate. The mist grew heavier, though still was only a tease of rain, and he expected it'd be clear by the morning, a red sky at night usually heralded a better day on the morrow, though not always. He looked at the Joining chalice, the king's gift, and felt more awkward than ever.

After meeting the king and the queen, he thought well on both of them, but clearly the king didn't think much of his own wife. Such vitriol and bitterness there had been in the sovereign's words. Yet, for all that he believed King Alistair was an honest man, Queen Gwyneth seemed a fine woman, and thinking of her as less than so . . . was difficult. _What if she _had_ been playing games with him, what if she _was_ the conniving creature her husband claimed her to be_? He'd known many women like that, noblemen's daughters that played at seduction with the set pieces of their beauty, and once upon a time, Gerod had been a willing participant in the game. He'd wielded his own brand of tricks, with the handsome face he'd possessed before his lost duel. The commander understood where it all came from, but Gwyneth had seemed forthright and he'd felt a hint of kinship towards her, and a bit more if he was being honest. To have that amount to nothing but a game of political chess, hurt, surprisingly so.

As if thinking about the woman was a mage's summoning spell, her voice was at his back.

"Ah, Ser Caron. I know it's late, but I was looking for you. This must look odd, me coming to you at such an hour, and alone at that, but we must speak before tomorrow."

Gerod held out a hand, disappointment etched on his features to the point that he didn't want to turn around and have her see. "Madame, please. Before you say anything, whatever argument you may have had with your husband to make him hate you so, I want no part of it." _Whatever you do, don't make the mistake of turning your back on her._ The remembered warning made him turn about, to see the surprise on the woman's face.

"_Hate _me? I don't understand." She shook her head.

"His Majesty seems most angry with you, and I cannot guess at the cause, but . . . if you meant to play some . . . game, with me, I won't have any of it. I am the Warden Commander of Ferelden, that is my role, my title and my responsibility. I have no desire to . . ." Her face had crumpled in on itself and it made it difficult for him to think. "I have no desire to be involved in anything beyond my duty. As a Warden, I can neither afford distractions or unnecessary complications." Still she watched him, her gaze luminous, wondering and sad and it pierced in him in a such a way that he couldn't escape it. "En enfer avec cela! Je ne peux pas croire ce qu'il m'a dit, que je ne _peux pas_!" He pressed his face into his hands, his scar an ever present line where it rubbed against his palm.

She'd walked that short distance, a careful hand placed at his shoulder. Alistair had said something against her, and if she was going to fix it, she had to know what it was. "Ce qu'a dit? Dis moi, Ser Caron . . . _veuillez_." Gwyneth ducked her head, trying to peer at him through the fingers that covered his face, using old lessons in Orlesian, cringing at the way her Ferelden tongue got the accent all wrong, but hoping they would have an effect. "_Veuillez_."

"Vous parler de Orlaisence?Vous continuer à surprendre moi, Gwyneth de'Highever." Even for his torturous indecision, he smiled at that.

"Mon père m'avait engagé pour le Marquis de'Montfort, pendant une courte période. Mon père savait déjà Orlaisence, une nécessité pour les transactions en politiques, mais j'avais tout juste commencé. Après l'engagement, il a été renforcée." She returned his smile when he finally looked at her. "Je m'excuse que c'est tellement épouvantable."

"Better than my Fereldish, no?" One dark brow went high. "Were you truly engaged to the Marquis de'Montfort? He was so _old_, and the infection in his leg was so bad it killed him. I can't imagine he would be a pleasant fiancé. "

Gwyneth shrugged, the cowl falling back to lay against the back of her shoulders. "Maybe that's why the engagement was so short. My father had hoped to get a trade agreement and begin operating openly with Orlesian ports for better business for the Coastlands. But, I think maybe he couldn't stomach the idea of his daughter married to a man with one foot in the grave, and the other all diseased."

Gerod smirked, remembering some of the less savory members of Orlesian nobility that he had made fun of in his youth. The poor old marquis had been one of them. The smirk was gone when he found the queen's hand at his arm, the woman herself close enough that he could smell the lilacs that she used in her soaps and perfumes.

She hoped that she had charmed him into a better mood, and he would be both more solicitous and malleable. "Please, tell me what my husband said. I swear that I won't say anything to make you suspect, but if he has accused me of some misdeed, I have the right to know."

He sighed, those silver eyes drawing the truth from him, and it seemed there was little defense against her. So he told her, watching the way her faced changed, the anger made open and visible. "I never believed you were _defenseless_, how could you have been after all that? But, I do admit that I thought you more a leader by diplomacy and less by the sword. Yet, His Majesty seemed to hint that you were dangerous, in some way, beyond the killing of darkspawn or shrewd governance."

Gwyneth felt her rage towards Alistair boiling in her veins and she would be hard pressed not to kill him when they saw each other again. What she _couldn't_ do, was lose control in front of the commander. She watched Gerod through her lashes, cautiously. He hadn't asked how both of the surviving Wardens still lived after they killed the archdemon, and whatever reason he had for holding back on that dangerous line of questioning, Gwyneth feared the moment that he _did_ ask. The answer she and Alistair had come up with in their planning, wasn't great by any measure. Worse, her own intentions would be twice as hard to achieve, now that Alistair had set her up for suspicion. He would answer for putting her on the spot, but right now, it was her _own _answer that was important.

She was raised to tell the truth when it worked, and develop a well made lie if that worked better and Gwyneth was ready to start crafting and plotting away. Except Alistair had accused her of just that, and it was those same talents that he must have thought were what made her a danger. For the first time in a very long while, Gwyneth felt guilt for her plotting, made even worse as she looked at Gerod Caron. The man whose face was scarred, his body bruised, and yet he stood valiant to protect a country that likely hated him, even if he had somehow earned the respect of those few Fereldans that remained at the Vigil. She may not have known him for long, but she knew in her heart that he must be a man who took his duty seriously and wouldn't let himself be held back by his shortcomings. _He deserved her respect for that, and to stand there on the battlements with him, and think of ways to trick him into doing what she wanted _. . . She placed a hand against her sternum, the other curled beneath her jaw as she began to pace.

It was a foreign feeling to Gwyneth to hesitate, to keep herself from doing something just because it required dishonesty. But foreign or no, it was persistent, and as his eyes followed her, she just couldn't do it.

"My . . . husband, and I have not been getting along lately, that's true. It is a wonder to me that we've been able to hide our displeasure towards each other for _this_ long. I cannot say that I am blameless, but he should not have said what he did. That was wrong." How easy it would have been to tear him apart, but even in that, Gwyneth found bile churning in her guts. She was being pathetic and weak, she knew, and the truth was about as comfortable for her as a pus leaking wound. "Perhaps he has due cause to think as he does, I can guess no more at his mood than you, but that is neither here nor there. It isn't _your_ problem, and you are right to want to abstain from getting in the middle of our troubles. They're personal and private, and I apologize on his behalf for bringing you into them, even momentarily."

She stopped pacing, her nervous hands clenching together at the base of her ribs, the picture of poise, even if Gwyneth felt none of it. So, it was a lie that served her after all, if not in words, then in posture. "You must understand, you are of noble heritage, and surely you know that such positions carry the great weight of duty. In order for me to do what I need to, I have not always been able to _be_ honest. The king . . . he's different, he wasn't raised as you and I were, and I fear at times that he cannot understand all that needs to be done. Would that I could make him see the world as I do, but I don't think that's possible. We are as different as the sun and the moon, he and I. Likely, it is those differences that cause him to think of me as a dangerous, plotting fiend."

It was the queen's truth, though overly simplified into something less raw and venomous. Gwyneth looked to Gerod, the Warden's head hung low, eyes focused on the stones of the battlements. He seemed to be weighing her words, and the young woman felt her breath paused inside her, waiting with tense anticipation for what he would say.

"That . . . makes sense, of a kind, I suppose." Gerod breathed easier as his words solidified the conclusion he'd already chosen to arrive at. "I have never been married, but I imagine that one arranged, might cause no end of strife." He hadn't been privy to the details but he _did_ know that the joining of the king and queen was an arrangement, though such marriages took up the majority amongst nobility and their like, and it was hardly a surprise. Had he still been the handsome nobleman he once was, and hadn't joined the Wardens, Gerod would have likely already been in a similarly arranged union.

Gwyneth shrugged, trying to appear far more nonchalant than she felt. "Sometimes, that's true, and other times it isn't as bad as all that. We're just going through a tough time right now, that's all." _An understatement to be sure_. He only nodded at that, and she cautiously continued. "But, will you speak with me on my matter? I assure you that it _is_ important, and has nothing to do with my marriage."

"Of course, madame, if it is important to _you_, then most certainly I would hear you out."

Her sigh of relief was genuine, relaxing all the taut lines in her face that had been caused by her worry. "It is about your prisoner, the late arl's son. I know that he is set to be hanged, but I have given the matter a great deal of consideration. After what his father did, I find that all I _can_ do is think on his execution."

Gerod looked concerned, but stayed where he was, not daring to make a move to comfort the woman. After her marital troubles, the last thing Gerod wanted to do was make her think that he was taking advantage of her melancholia. "You are having second thoughts?"

Gwyneth nodded, one fist still curled beneath her chin. She had imagined this to be easy. The commander was clearly charmed by her, at least in some measure, and it shouldn't have been difficult to convince him that she was a sympathetic soul, driven to spare Nathaniel because of her own moral character. Now, in light of the way Alistair had darkened her morality for Gerod, the chance that he might believe the king, made Gwyneth change how to come at her desire.

If she lied, her inconvenient guilt might cloud the image of sincerity, and the truth made her seem vengeful and petty, which she could admit to herself that she was, but didn't want anyone _else_ to know. Her upper teeth fretted at her bottom lip, until she could feel the bite of them into that pink flesh. "I went to see Master Nathaniel. We never liked one another, and with recent events, it is much worse than that. I suppose it would've been better if I hadn't seen him at all, but I couldn't help it. My curiosity is a great failing, but we all have our flaws, and I don't apologize for mine, but I _do_ think they get the better of me at times."

"You went to see him? _Alone_? Majesty, with the way that man feels towards you, I would have no doubt he may wish you harm."

"Oh, I'm _certain_ he does, Ser Caron, but one angry man behind bars was not so very frightening. Not after the Blight." She might have mentioned how once a person had faced down a great archdemon, that there was little to compare to that, but Gwyneth was too cautious to mention anything concerning Urthemiel, and not merely to avoid the commander's inevitable questioning. Her shoulders flinched at the haunting words from her nightmares_._

"No." Gerod shook his head, understanding her meaning clearly enough. "No, I suppose not."

"What?" Gwyneth's mouth opened to an 'o' of surprise.

"You were saying that an imprisoned man couldn't compare to the dangers of the darkspawn, no?"

"Ah, yes." She shook her head, brought out of her imaginings of inhuman claws against her skin, by the present, and chiding herself for getting lost inside her head in the first place. "Yes I was . . . I'm sorry, I seem to find myself . . ." A flash of eerie golden eyes in her mind, even as she closed her own. "Distracted." Her wayward vision finally settled under her control again and the queen offered an apologetic smile, even as she surged forward with her original intention. "Sleep might offer me some manner of reprieve, but what I have to say cannot wait until tomorrow, or it will be too late, because I am indeed having 'second thoughts' and third and fourth thoughts right along with them."

Gwyneth paused, pursing her lips. "I don't think that Master Howe's seeming apathy for his own death is caused by any reconciliation of his guilt. If that were indeed the case, why wouldn't he simply repent for his own ill words and condemn his father's actions, as he justly should? Reconciliation is a manner of acceptance, and I can't see how Nathaniel Howe has come to any kind of _acceptance_ for the justice wrought upon his father and his house."

Gerod pondered that, and had to agree, _but what reason could a man have for willingly walking to the gallows, short of being suicidal? _After speaking to the prisoner, he seemed to have a stubborn character, and not the type that the commander would suspect of possessing a suicidal mind set. He told the queen just that. "So either he wants to die, because he is in such misery, which is hard to fathom, or . . ."

Gwyneth finished for the Warden commander. "Or he wishes to martyr himself, which I believe is the case. I have known Nathaniel Howe for most of my life. Him, his brother, his sister and his _father_. While I admit I never had a true notion of _Rendon Howe's_ character, until he showed his hand, I'm most certain on the character of his first born. Nathaniel is a man prone to brooding, as he has ever been, and despite his claims that he doesn't chase women, I'm sure he's used that 'brooding facade' to lure in company to warm his bed for an evening or two. But what he _isn't_, is a man with a death wish. I could never have believed that of him, and I certainly don't _now_. There is no other explanation for his acceptance of the punishment, nay, his _desire_ for the punishment, than a wish for martyrdom. He thinks in dying he will prove his erroneous opinion of myself and my family to be truthful, that he was hanged so I might shut him up, and any Howe sympathizers will drag that out, and I cannot bear for that to happen."

Gerod was uncertain, the seed of doubt the king had planted making him question the queen's motives, even if what she was saying sounded plausible. "Majesty, I just don't know what other recourse might be taken. You have spoken with him, just as I did, and it is obvious that he wouldn't _willingly_ serve Vigil's Keep to redeem himself, no more than he will separate his mind from the will of his dead father. So, assigning him to take up the restructuring of the keep is a useless endeavor, he'd only attempt to escape until he was successful, or the guards were forced to kill him. Sparing him the noose would be discutable, after that, would it not?"

"Well, of course it would, but I'm thinking more that you might keep him in your sight, give him a fate he _can't_ run away from."

"Such as?"

She didn't answer him right away, building to the climax of her request. "For me, becoming a Grey Warden was the last recourse, forced on me in the worst moment of my life." That much was honest, and Gwyneth was careful not to let too much venom bleed out.

"I understand that there are those that join the order for far better reasons, their own to be exact, and I can't deny that some good came out of it, but _I_ had no other options, save giving up and dying. Anyone that knows me well, can tell you that I _refuse_ to concede, so there really wasn't even _that_ choice. Commander Duncan never informed me that the Joining itself could be deadly, and I nearly refused, except he'd already killed one of the other recruits before for the same 'offense', after the first man failed to pass the test." She could remember it clearly, Daveth's body lain dead on the stone, his lifeless hands still clutched at a throat that had only just swallowed the darkspawn blood that ended him. Jory had looked on in horror, as Gwyneth did the same, backing away from the scene until Alistair stood behind her, shaking his head as if in warning. When Jory made the attempt to refuse the Joining, Duncan had run him through, the former knight's blood pooling out to touch the body of the other dead man. Gwyneth had screamed, but she had a hard time recalling the sound of that, in the face of taking that damned chalice and drinking the poison inside it. "I will _never_, in all my days, forget those men's names, how they looked as they died. I'll _never_ forgive Commander Duncan for not telling me what to expect, what the _true_ sacrifice for joining him was."

Her eyes burned, hot liquid pools of silverite. "But even so, it was _Rendon Howe_ that was to blame, it was _he_ who took away my choices. If my family hadn't been killed, Duncan would've taken another recruit, not in a million years would it have been _me_, if not for Rendon Howe's murderous intentions. I should never have become a Grey Warden, I'm a teyrn's daughter, for the Maker's sake, but I had no other path that I could've taken!" Gwyneth clenched one fist, long fingers curling in until her nails were digging blood crescents into her palm. "So if his _son_ thinks that he can stand by what his father did, and still walk his own path, even if it leads to the gallows, then he is wrong! That is _no_ kind of justice, _no_ kind at _all_!"

There was an unpleasant little storm cloud brewing above the woman's head, Gerod could feel her temper building like a haze around her, and he instinctively put his hands on her shoulders. "Calm yourself, Majesty, I understand, I really do, but getting so upset isn't going to solve anything."

With a deep sigh, filling her lungs with the damp coastal air off the nearby Waking Sea, the mist of Vigil's Keep lending a smoky flavor to it, she relaxed into the commander's grip. "Of course, I apologize, but that man _so_ sets me to temper." Gwyneth gritted her teeth together, feeling the pressure in her jaw. She looked up to find that the Warden was much closer than she realized, and she tried not to wince at the proximity of his scarred face. Drawing a path from that disfiguring mark, she found his eyes instead. The irises were so very blue and vibrant, and all at once Gwyneth was reminded of another face, a blonde instead of a brunette, his winning smile hard to forget even in the most distant memory. There were suppose to be more words, she'd finally finished building to the moment where she would make her request, but instead there was nothing, her mouth opening only to another sigh.

For months Gerod had known the queen only by her letters, and a painted face on rolled and worn parchment. Now he had the real thing before him, and he yearned to remember, that beautiful or no, she was just a woman, a _married_ woman, no different from any other and there was no reason to get flustered, but no silent self commandant could dim the embers in him. It had been a long time since any lady had ever looked at him without pity or disgust, however, and in Gwyneth's portrait there had only ever been a light smile and those bright eyes. In person, the effect was stronger still, and Gerod couldn't force himself to apathy. She was so close, her breath warming the misting air that settled in the space between them, and in that moment the commander wanted nothing more than to kiss her. So he backed away, shaking his head to clear it.

Without those blue pools, hauntingly familiar and enticingly new, before her Gwyneth was able to think more clearly, and she noticed the tortured cast to the commander's face. "Ser Caron . . . is . . . is something the matter?"

He looked out over the keep that he was now in charge of, unable to look at the queen for fear of what he might do. "No, Majesty, but it _is_ late and if you would make your peace and go, I think it'd be best for the both of us." Gerod hated how cold his voice sounded, but it was the only defense he had.

Gwyneth quirked a brow, not certain of what had caused his change of mood, but she couldn't wait for it to improve again. This wasn't the way she wanted to say it, but it was clear that Ser Caron wouldn't be pleased with anything less than abrupt. "I think Nathaniel Howe should take part in the Joining ritual. He should have to face the same grey horizon that his father forced _me_ to."

_That_ got his attention, and he _did_ look at her then. "_Conscription_? On a _prisoner_? No, I'm sorry, that is out of the question."

"Ser Caron, if you would merely . . ."

"I said, _no_, madame!" The Orlesian's face was angry, more so than it had been in some time, and the only thing that calmed him, was the surprise from the queen at the volume of his voice. "I feel for you, truly, but your circumstances are not mine. I have nothing but gratitude to Commander Le Mercier for taking me into the order, he gave me purpose when I had little of it on my own. He gave me honor again, and you cannot ask me to apply that same honor as a means of _punishment_."

"I wonder, Commander, if you felt the same way when you conscripted that rogue mage of yours to save him from the templar's justice. I wonder, if you recalled the _honor_ of your order when you quite clearly didn't inform said mage of what he was getting into. Let's be truthful here, there was no _honorable_ sense of duty, of giving another man _purpose_. You wanted a healer, you had one nearby, and that was that. Yet, when _I_ ask you to put a condemned man beneath the Maker's eyes, where He can decide his fate and if he is worthy of redemption at all, you balk at it and make me seem like a wretch for asking!" Gwyneth snarled, past pretense and her need for it. "I would have had you be honest to Master Howe, for no matter my feelings towards the man himself, _no one _should be conscripted without knowing what they may face. Not even a prisoner, and certainly not an apostate who likely sees your 'offer' as nothing but an escape from a fate he thinks is worse. Would it be so if he knew how _permanent_ the Joining _really_ is? And you would think that _I_ am unreasonable?"

"I never said you were unreasonable! Majesty, please, you just need to understand . . ."

Gwyneth shook her head, turning on her heel. "I understand well enough, Ser Caron." Her voice was clipped and angry as she made a rather grand, and severely agitated exit, leaving the commander behind her, his words and apologies falling on deaf ears.

* * *

Each step made the young queen's temper rise to dangerous levels, her face red from her ire. Servants skittered out of her path as she made for the chamber that was set to be hers and Alistair's for the evening. She opened the door, forcing herself to be slow, even though every urge in her wanted to slam it open. A maid was inside, straightening the bed sheets as Alistair was sitting lazily in one arm chair, his shield pressed against his knees as he polished it with a jar of iron salve and a rag.

"Leave. Now." The command was brief, but severe, and the maid curtsied briefly, more than glad to be out of there, with a demon queen boring down on her.

Gwyneth's eyes followed the woman, as she moved to shut and latch the door behind her. She pressed her face into the old wood, the musty smell of it disgusting, but helpful, so she didn't pick up something and throw it at Alistair. When she turned around, her irises seeming little more than slits. The tall king was making long strides across the room, to set his shield against the wardrobe. _The bastard had the gall to smirk . . . smirk!_

"Why, Gwyn, you look a little upset. Something wrong?"

"You know damn well there is." She walked up to him, and as he turned around she delivered a slap to his face, so strong that it made him reel back, a hand instantly going to his quickly reddening cheek. His brown eyes were dark with an anger all his own, but still shocked, and she claimed some victory in that. "You stupid, backstabbing, careless, son of a whore!" Her voice was so loud, she was certain anyone in the hall could hear, and she didn't care a whit in all her boiling bile. "What the hell is the matter with you? Do you _want_ Ser Caron to start asking questions we don't have a good answer for?" They both knew what that question was, and that fact infuriated her further. "Go ahead, you dim witted fuck! Make him suspicious of me, of you, and while you're at it, go up to the battlements and scream out that you bedded a maleficar, so that you could live to be king!"

"Shut your mouth! Do you want everyone to hear you?"

"Why should I care? _You_ clearly don't!"

"Right. I don't care, that's why I did it in the first place, because I didn't care." He had the temerity to roll his eyes in sarcasm. "And you call _me_ stupid? What the hell do you think _you_ are? You actually think I only wanted to save _myself_? You're the one that talked me into it, anyway! I wanted to save us both, I wanted save _you_, my friend, my sister in arms . . ."

"Your wife." Gwyneth finished, watching him flinch, but she couldn't smile at that successful dig, she was too pissed off. It wouldn't have likely been all that much of a success though, not when he caught on to something in that title.

His broad mouth curved into a mirthless and acidic grin. "My Maker-damned _wife_, that's right. You are _my_ wife, and yet you go around and flirt with everyone and anyone you please, like it doesn't matter, like you can make a fool out of me and nothing will happen. Well guess what, sweetheart, I'm not the same foot pad I used to be. I'm the _King of Ferelden_, and I'm going behave like one, and I won't let my queen disrespect me so publicly!"

"I'm not your _sweetheart_, and what are you on about? Have you completely lost your mind? Maker's breath! Who, _supposedly_, have I been flirting with?" She had her arms folded across her heaving chest, moving in time with Alistair, so that they were circling each other. More like two opponents on the field, than a husband and wife.

"My knights. Ser William is always so 'concerned' for you, and Ser Amstead. How quickly he helped you off your horse today, he had his hands all over you! And don't think I won't speak to him about that."

"_What_? You _are_ crazy!" She nearly spat at him, but he didn't back down.

"Am I? How did you know I said anything to Ser Caron then, hmm?" When she didn't answer him, he knew the truth of it. "You went to him after we spoke, didn't you? I tried to warn him, about what you are _really_ like, but then _I_ don't have him wrapped around my finger, like _you_ do!" He would've grinned, knowing that he had her backed into a corner, but there was no real pleasure in being right, not about _that_. "I bet all you had to do was smile at him, bat your eyelashes a little, or maybe you pressed up against him." Alistair moved towards Gwyneth, as she backed away, herded inward towards the room until the backs of her thighs hit the edge of a small table, sloshing the wine inside the large goblet of it that was sitting there.

"N-No, that's . . . that's not the way of it." She was trying to catch her breath, more afraid of Alistair than she'd ever been. There was a dark glint in his eyes that she hadn't seen before and it was unsettling. His predatory movements didn't help matters, but as he got closer, she straightened her chin, looking at him defiantly. "I wanted to talk to him about the prisoner, Nathaniel Howe. I don't want him hanged."

"Why not?"

"Because it's what _he_ wants! Why should _he_ get to decide his own fate, when _I_ never did?" She failed to mention she wanted him conscripted instead.

Alistair snorted at that, almost amused at how easily she could get people to follow her whim, while all the time being such a selfish creature. "And the commander just went along with it?"

"No, he turned it down. You spilling out your hatred of me, made him distrust what I said. Nathaniel will be hung tomorrow and there's nothing I can do about it, and it's _your_ fault!" Sidling up inside her guts, right along with her anger, was hurt, and it was there in her eyes as she stared up at her glowering husband. "How could you _say_ those things about me?"

"I don't know, Gwyn. How do _you_ say half the things _you_ do?" Alistair raked a hand through his hair, the dark blonde strands now just past his shoulders. "I didn't want you to get at him, spewing more of your lies." His voice had gone quiet, but lacked none of its earlier venom.

"Lies? Oh, that's rich! Considering when I tried to be honest and forthcoming, you walked out on me! You only want the truth, if its what you want to hear! You didn't care about how people saw me and you still don't! Why not just announce to all of Thedas that you hate me, and despise being married to me." Even matching him glare for glare didn't make it sting any less to know that was the truth.

He snarled at her, not unlike an angry jungle cat from Seheron. "Why should I enjoy it? Being married to you is like having my lungs cut out with a wooden spoon! I gave up Leliana for this, for _you_. I thought it was for _her_, but it wasn't, and now I won't ever see her face again, and when I dream about her, everything is infected with _your _image! You're like a plague in my mind!"

"I'm like a _plague_?"

He saw her eyes go wide and round, but kept going, unable to stop even if he wished to. "I want to dig you out, but I can't. I want to leave you to mourn for Morrigan, who would have _never_ loved you, and Cailan who would have _left_ you for Empress Celene, because you deserve it! Is it any wonder that the interest men and women have in you ends with lust? I _love_ Leliana, more than you can understand, and more than anyone could love a heartless bitch like _you_! Still, I wouldn't leave you, because I made a promise, but what do I get in return? Not a bloody thing! You put me through Hell, and except some loyalty for that! You want _everything_, but give _nothing_!" The last time Alistair had felt that kind of rage, he'd decapitated a man, and it was quickly spiraling out of control. "I wish to the Maker that I had _never_ married you! Maybe I should have married Anora! Sure, she wasn't much better, but at least she . . ." He stopped, the red haze of anger dissipating at the choked sobbing noise Gwyneth had made. His eyes finally were able to see her, and his rage ended as quickly as if someone had shoved a bone blade into his chest.

She was crying, and more than that, she was crying so badly her shoulders were shaking, her body slumped back against the table. One hand at her ribs and the other at her throat, as it wobbled beneath her palm. Large hot tears made treks down her face, turning the pale landscape of her skin into a mottled mix of white, pink and red.

"Gwyneth?"

"I'm not . . ." She hiccupped in sadness, forcing the words out as angrily as she could manage, but it wasn't much. "I'm not _heartless_!"

Alistair had felt justified, wronged and righteous, but seeing her now, he just felt horrible, his guilt a lump that he tried to swallow past. "I . . . I know that, I was just . . . I was so _furious_ . . ." He went to touch one of her shaking shoulders, but she flinched, like the contact would burn her and the king's face turned down, defeated.

"Get . . . out." Her voice was so hoarse he could barely hear her.

"What?"

"I said, get out!"

"No! Wait! Let me explain!" He put his hands out, a placating motion that his wife wasn't having anything of.

She grabbed the wine goblet and threw it at him. Alistair ducked in time, to have it break against the wall, dark red liquid splattered onto the wood grain. Gwyneth started shrieking, more hateful than he'd ever seen her, grabbing something else to throw at him.

"Get out!"

He moved as fast as he could, wrenching the door open, only to shut it seconds before something heavy crashed into it.

Alistair stood there, unsure of what to do or where to go. All his things were still in that bedchamber. He didn't dare ask her to let him collect his belongings, however, not in her current state.

The hallway was long and silent, the servants all likely headed for their own quarters already. From behind the door, he heard Gwyneth begin to sob again, her voice so full of ache and hurt that it took his breath away, and he slumped down to the floor. For almost an hour he listened to his wife cry, until she must have fallen asleep, and then he dragged himself away to try and get some rest of his own, though he doubted it would come so easily.


	34. Chapter 34: Inside a Poisoned Kiss

**Disclaimer:** _"Dragon Age: Origins" and all its expansions and additional content is the property of Bioware and EA Games. Large portions of written content within the game, as well as Dragon's Age: The Stolen Throne, and Dragon's Age: Calling, are the creation of David Gaider. Original scenarios and characters are used under the creative license of the writer, ItalianEmpress1985. No profit is being made and the following story is for entertainment purposes only_

**Words From The Author: **_I apologize that the Joining ritual isn't in here, I know some of you were looking forward to it. Unfortunately, keeping to a general chapter length, I didn't have time for it, since it occurs later, after the king and queen leave for the Bannorn. I won't leave it out of the story entirely though, don't worry. On that note, this chapter has more separate sections than some other chapters, but the length runs roughly about the same._

_Because you'll encounter it later, calling someone 'old son' doesn't mean that person is old, or the son of the speaker, it's just a saying and seemed to fit the modern British personality of Anders, who despite anything in the sequel, is based off of his original characterization here._

_Ser William Aquitaine is the king's First Knight, so the other knights refer to him as Captain, because to them, that's what he is. Captain of the King's Guard, so to speak, only with a different title, and with more prestige than just a guard, of course._

_Entertainment Recommendation: I don't usually do recommendations, certainly not those outside the Dragon Age fandom, but I think most of my readers like dark fantasy since this story is rife with it, so I think it could be something many of you may be interested in. HBO is putting out an original series based on George Martin's "Song of Fire and Ice", called "Game of Thrones" after one of the books in the series, that premieres this month. In addition to Sean Bean as a main cast member, it looks pretty awesome too. I've put a link to one of the trailers in my profile under extras if anyone wants to check it out. It's not an April Fool's joke, so don't worry, even though we have a few days yet. (I've been Rick Rolled so many times I'd never do it to someone else . . . except my brothers maybe. :p)_

_Thank you for stopping in. Watch out for low flying dragons!_

* * *

_**Chapter Thirty Four:**_

_**Inside a Poisoned Kiss**_

* * *

_Teach not thy lip such scorn, for it was made for kissing,_

_lady, not for such contempt.  
_

_- __William Shakespeare_

* * *

She could've used a glass of wine to relax her, but the last of it, a bottle brought from the wagons, had dried against the wall. Gwyneth hadn't bothered to clean it or ask for a servant to come. An uncharacteristic disregard for cleanliness, but then, the queen was in a rather _uncharacteristic_ depression and couldn't be bothered to care about much outside the inner confines of her mind.

Laying in that too-wide bed, her legs curled up so her knees were at her ribs, so many thoughts plagued Gwyneth before she finally did fall under, feeling sorry for herself, and indulging in it with fat stinging tears until it seemed she couldn't cry anymore. At first it was the expected bevy of thoughts about sleeping in the same place where Rendon Howe had once rested his own head, plotting against her family, though blissfully it wasn't the same _room_. Then came the unease for sleeping in a place that had only quite recently been relieved from its darkspawn visitors, but as the night drew on, and it became clear that the danger had momentarily passed, that lessened.

Amid worries about whatever nightly visitors might come to her in the Fade of Dreams, and anger over being unable to prevent Nathaniel Howe's martyrdom, she thought about her marriage. It was meant to be stabilizing, Alistair's all bright 'newness' and her long lasting familial importance. His fresh outlook, and her old standards. What he didn't know, Gwyneth was suppose to teach him, and where she lacked, he was suppose to take up the slack. A marriage of balance to replace the absence of love, but something had changed.

Gwyneth thought she was on the cusp of understanding what it was, some days, and other days she had neither the patience or energy to debate with herself in order to figure it out. _'Save the debates for the banns, I'll certainly need my wits then, won't I?'_

Her husband despised her, the new commander may have wanted to befriend her but was now unwilling to trust her, Seneschal Varel looked to her husband instead of her. There was no control in this place, and all the queen's well laid plans seemed useless. '_Didn't I want this? Didn't I want them to look to him, so they wouldn't suspect I was pulling the strings?_' Maybe she had, but she was beginning to see that she couldn't pull Alistair's strings anymore, because he had cut them off. Gwyneth should have been infuriated, but somewhere inside her, where she remembered having a brother in arms, she was proud, but the feeling warred with her frustration with the man.

That night, he'd hurt her, and that was the most frustrating of all, because she shouldn't care. _What did his pithy words mean to her? _She grimaced, drawing the bed sheet up to her chin and pressing one cheek more firmly into the pillow. _They meant nothing . . . and everything._

* * *

June 7'th, 9:31, Dragon Age

The cobbles smelt of burnt wood and old blood, all the rain in the world couldn't have masked that odor overnight and the morning was proving to be a fine one, and dried the worn stones out to a pale grey. Alistair's eyes winced of their own accord, shuttering themselves against the onslaught of the over bright sun, looking down at his freshly polished boots, the rich black of them winking at him as the rays hit their shiny surface. Even outside the capital he couldn't get away from maintaining a standard of appearance, and that morning he groaned to realize it was from habit. '_Who would've thought such a thing? Alistair Theirin, man of good taste and refined form.' _His inner voice sounded suspiciously like Gwyneth and the grin that had been teasing at self depreciation ended in a frown. '_Ahh, Gwyneth_.' He took a deep breath, tugging the edge of his tunic down and gathering himself before the assemblage of his knights. Ser William saluted, a bit of dried jerky hanging out of the corner of his mouth, and Alistair had to chuckle at that.

Noble had spent the night in the kennels, Gwyneth sleeping without her mabari for the first time in awhile. Though Alistair suspected once they took to the road that morning, that the following evening would see the royal hound back with his mistress. At present, he was whimpering at the feet of the first knight, rubbing his broad forehead against William's boots as he weaved back and forth, sulking up at the man with soulful brown eyes.

"Alright, alright. You know Her Majesty won't like it if I keep sneaking you treats." William fished around in the rucksack he had already secured to his horse, freeing a piece of jerky and handing it to the eager canine. Noble's stubby tail wagged furiously, making his whole muscular backside shake, and he wasted no time in claiming his prize, content for at least a little while. "Greedy mabari, aren't you?" At that accusation, Noble only whined briefly, but there was no greater love than a snack and he couldn't be distracted from that for very long.

Alistair smiled at the scene despite himself, glad that so far no one had noticed or questioned the absence of his wife, or the fact that he'd exited from a different bedchamber that morning. He looked over the preparations, certain that they'd be ready to leave before high noon. In a way he was glad to move along, but in other ways, he wanted nothing more than to stay. It was a silent war in his head, and at the end of it, no one really won the first battle. "We have everything packed?"

Ser Amstead leaned around Ser William, nodding his dark blonde head. "_Nearly_ all, Sire, we had most things secured before the sun came up. Her Majesty wanted to be out of here as soon as possible, she said something about not caring for the macabre. Can't rightly say what that meant, Highness, but we did as she asked."

Alistair remembered what he'd accused the man of in his intense argument with the queen, and had to bite his cheek to keep from apologizing right then and there, his face heated from his embarrassment. He knew very well that Ser Amstead wasn't likely to get overly friendly with the queen, but somehow, in his frustration and anger it had seemed more than that. Now the idea just seemed absurd. The king cleared his throat, surveying the collected company of wagons and men. _'Not caring for the macabre_.' That probably meant that Gwyneth didn't want to stay and watch Nathaniel Howe be hung, and Alistair couldn't really blame her. He nodded at his knights. "We'll already be late to the Bannorn, so I'd say Her Majesty is right about leaving early." It occurred to him then, that she must have gotten up a great deal earlier than he did, and he couldn't pretend anymore that he had any sort of idea where she went. "I seem to have fallen behind somehow. Can you tell me where the queen is, now?"

"Aye, she went to the stables. She was well fussed about tending to her own horse." Ser William winced, moving closer to his king so he could whisper conspiratorially. "And if I might say so, Sire, she seemed in a cross mood. Probably didn't sleep well." There was the same sympathy there for the woman that Alistair had encountered before, but his accusations against William had even less merit than those he'd made towards Amstead. His first knight's face was nothing but a tapestry of loyalty and concern for his king and his queen.

"Thank you, Ser Aquitaine. I'll . . . uhh, I'll just go and see if she doesn't need any help anyway." Alistair nodded, swallowing against the heavy anxiety that had settled in his throat, and went to find Gwyneth.

Ser Boughton grinned, but there was a grimace hidden in those stretched lips, as he watched the king head for the stables. "His Majesty's a braver man than most of us, eh?"

Beside him, Ser Amstead glowered. "You're more of a busy body than an old fish wife. The queen's not _that_ bad."

"She's a woman, isn't she? No dealing with a woman when she's gone and gotten herself all riled up." Boughton shrugged, securing a short bow with the rolled up blanket he had behind his saddle.

"Will the two of you mind your own bleeding business and finish packing! Maker's breath!" William barked at them, Noble turning his head up at the pair to bark in turn, earning a smile from his new friend.

"I don't think a Knight of Denerim should be reduced to a pack mule." Amstead grumbled under his breath.

"What was that?"

"I said, yes, Captain." It came with a smile.

* * *

It was dusty, and the lonely feeling that the empty stalls gave off didn't make it any more pleasant a place. Gwyneth had never enjoyed any stable she'd been in, the 'hearty' smell of them that her father and brother had commented on, was more to her the pungent odor of horse manure and stale hay. Oddly enough, without that odor, the Vigil's stables felt dead, abandoned. Save their two visitors.

Her palfrey whinnied as the queen wiped away a bead of perspiration from her forehead, with the sleeve of her traveling tunic. She grimaced, yanking her riding gloves off with her teeth to tuck them under her belt, as her frustrated fingers made another attempt to secure the d-ring of the saddle girth. The thick, quilted padding made her exposed wrist feel itchy each time it came into contact with it, the woolen stuffing of the thing peeking out from a small tear at the edge. She'd have to quickly sew it up before they left, as if there wasn't enough to do.

"This is hard on both of us, missy, and if you'd just stay still long enough, I'd get it." She glared up at the horse, the mount's head turned to all but glare back with those glassy dark eyes. "Don't look at me like that, I've had a bad morning, and the sooner we get out of this shit hole the better I'll feel." The mare only snorted at that, tamping one rear hoof down onto the packed-earth of the stall. "Alright, listen, if you just give me a _little_ more time, I promise I'll find you a nice snack somewhere." Such bribery had always worked with Noble.

The short length of braided rope felt slick with sweat, and every time Gwyneth tried to knot it, it only came undone when she tugged it to make sure it was secure. One hand went up to hold the stirrup strap when the whole saddle threatened to slide off the side as her palfrey grew even more agitated, bucking and chomping her teeth into the bit before she decided to settle down again. Gwyneth sighed, wanting to cry in tense annoyance.

Scuffing boots, moving from the cobbles outside, to the bare dirt of the stables, gave the newcomer away, and Gwyneth turned, brushing escaped hair away from her eyes as she glowered at them. "_Wonderful_, because my day is going so _smashingly_ already." She groused as Alistair blinked at her, looking wary to come in before he finally ducked under the low arch of the side entrance.

"Ser William said you seemed intent to tend to your own horse but I know you aren't that good at it. I thought you might need some help, so we can get going." The young king kept his voice calm, trying very much to make sure things stayed civil, at least on _his_ end.

"Did he then? Well, I don't _need_ help, certainly not _yours_." She returned succinctly, going back to her troublesome task. Her back stiffened when Alistair came up behind her, his voice soft, and more pleasant than it had any right to be.

"You're getting irritated, and it's making _her_ irritated too." He motioned up at the snorting mare. "Let me help you, before she gets herself worked up. Otherwise, we'll probably have to get you another mount." He peered over Gwyneth's shoulder, his chin almost touching her ear, hands moving over hers to replace her fingers on the rope. "May I?"

Alistair's proximity was making her nervous and twitchy, and she was more than glad to skitter under one of his arms, folding her own against her chest, as she raised a brow at him. Gwyneth's mouth was a taut drawn line, barely cracking open to let her speak. "Fine."

"What were you trying to do anyway?" Alistair thought keeping things simple was best, and at least she was _speaking_ to him, and she hadn't thrown anything at his head. It was more progress than he imagined he'd encounter when he came in there.

"Secure the girth, it was too loose, but now I can't get it knotted again."

"Were you using a cinch knot or a hitch knot?"

Gwyneth raised a brow, confused. "A _what_ or a _what_? A knot's a knot, what difference does it make?" The note of typical high bred carelessness. The upper crust rarely had to stoop to menial labor, and the specifics of that work was as lost to them as the concept of going a day without clean clothes. Gwyneth had been schooled in both during her stint 'roughing it' in the out of doors those six wretched months, but she was far from used to it, usually shirking off the more 'common' tasks on someone else. Namely the man she'd married.

Alistair grinned, secure in his own knowledge on the subject. "Come here."

"Why?"

"I want to show you how to knot this."

"I'm not an idiot!"

"I never said you were. Gwyn, just come here. Please." He turned his head to look at her over his shoulder, biting back on a smirk of victory when she stood next to him, watching his hands. "It looks like you were trying to make a hitch knot, but the loop you made isn't intended to secure a riding saddle, mostly they're used for sailing. I've never been on a boat any bigger than for fishing on Lake Calenhad, but I've seen them there, sometimes. For saddles, you want a cinch knot, and I've saddled a _lot_ of horses." He took the length of rope, looping it over the d-ring, and tugging one end of it to the right while he held the other. Gwyneth was watching intently, her curiosity and interest for learning overcoming her anger towards him, and Alistair felt a pleasant warmth suffuse his limbs to have even that brief kind of peace.

"Hmm, I didn't think to extend it . . ." She jerked in surprise when he took her fingers in his own so that _she_ was the one tying the knot while _he_ decided her movements. Gwyneth was never one to concede, but for the doubts she did have about her husband, his knowledge with horses wasn't one of them.

"Wrap this end around the loop you've made near the top . . . like this. There you go." He was almost crooning in her ear, the tone one of a gentle instructor with a bright student. "See, that's not so hard. Now slip the end of the tie you just made over the outside of the ring, and then through the center. Go through the ring between the metal and the saddle strap. Pull it tight. There!" He smiled at her, looking down that short distance made by their difference in height.

Gwyneth almost smiled back, but she remembered why she'd been angry with him in the first place and only managed a satisfactory 'hmm' before she was reaching for her rucksack. Something she _had_ managed to tie for herself. She drew out her water canteen and took a small sip, knowing it'd have to be refilled before they left. "Thank you."

Whatever brief pleasantry there'd been, a cold distance he was more than familiar with, was back to fill the gap in their conflicted and confusing relationship. "You're welcome."

She tipped the canteen in his direction, eyes drifting to her palfrey, who seemed in much better spirits now that she wasn't being prodded at. "You're good with saddles."

"Yeah, well, I was a stable boy remember? At least _something_ came out of it. Not that you saw much of my talents during the Blight, it's not as if we had many horses milling around."

"That's true and teyrn's daughters don't typically do stable work, so I wouldn't have noticed besides. There's a _lot_ we don't know about each other." Her tone was peculiar, and the set of her face made it hard to tell what she was really thinking.

"Another truth." Alistair grinned, hoping it was an olive branch of some kind, but when she scowled, he knew better.

"Don't do that. Don't pretend to be all cute and friendly, after the things you said!" She turned on her heel, stuffing her water canteen viciously back into her rucksack before making for the open archway. Alistair grabbed her arm, quicker on his feet than she'd given him credit for. "Let go!"

"No! No I won't, not until you listen." Even for all her anger, he was still stronger, and he had her in an iron grip that commanded she listen even if she didn't want to.

"You have _nothing_ to say that I care to hear. Your words don't mean a _bloody thing_ to me!"

"You're lying. If you _really_ didn't care, you wouldn't be upset."

He was right and that made Gwyneth even more incensed, as she yanked away from him, but that only caused him to grab both arms instead, holding the backs of them tight against his chest, so she was practically face to face with him. She glared hotly, nostrils widening and flaring, not unlike her agitated palfrey earlier. "So, what? You think you can just swagger in here, help with a piddling little knot, and I'm not suppose to be angry? If you think _that,_ you _are_ a moron!"

"_You're_ not all peaches and cream either, Gwyn! Honestly? You're a pain in the ass!"

"And the flattery continues!"

"If you wanted flattery, you married the wrong person!"

"Well, _that's_ obvious!"

Alistair was going to snap back with a retort, but it wasn't what he wanted, none of it was. He'd meant to apologize, but the words hadn't come, and they found themselves at blows . . . again. "You don't mean that, and neither do I."

"How dare you tell me what I mean, or don't mean! You have _no_ grounds to make _any_ presumptions about me!" Her lip was curled, and if she were a mabari instead of a woman, her teeth would be ready to take a chunk out of him. She half considered it, anyway. Farther back in the stable, her palfrey whinnied, the yelling making the animal distressed. "Enough. I don't have the energy to argue with you, and my mare's getting skittish."

But the king didn't let go, and he didn't show any sign of wanting an escape from their argument. For once Alistair was certain about what he wanted to say, the irregularity of that not making him any less resolute. "Gwyneth, we're _going_ to talk about this, and you're _going_ to hear me out. Because I won't spend the whole trip from here to the bannorn with you burning holes in my back!"

"Hmph." She rolled her eyes, secretly impressed with his initiative, but she'd never tell him so. "How droll . . . could you at least give me the freedom to move my arms, or are you just as intent on speaking as you are on being a barbarian king?"

The insult in her words wasn't lost on him, neither was her typical melodrama, but Alistair had a sneaking suspicion that something he said had calmed her down. If he wanted to get out of this stable with his dignity still intact, however, he'd best get to the point sooner rather than later. He nodded, letting her go and watching as she folded her arms in front of chest, hips skewed to one side. She looked obstinate, like always and Alistair sighed. "You make everything so difficult. How am I suppose to speak my mind when you're always either ready to sneer at me, or jump down my throat?"

She snorted, narrowing her eyes at him. "If this is the beginning of your apology, I can tell you right now, that you'd best rethink it. It's a poor one."

The King of Ferelden still had moments where he felt like a boy trying to fit into his father's boots, or a cheap imitation bought from some seedy tent merchant in Denerim. Most of these times were in Gwyneth's presence, but right then he strangely felt none of it. Whatever it was that had bolstered him, he clung to it and refused to let go. "I _should_ apologize. I didn't think I'd hurt you, but I know I did, and I really _am_ sorry for that. I don't ever want you to imagine that I think it's okay to upset you. Maybe I wanted revenge for all the times you've gotten under _my_ skin, but mostly, I was just furious and agitated and when I thought you might have been trying to use your wiles on Ser Caron . . ."

"My _wiles_?" Her brows rose high, as if she were going to begin laughing at him, amazed at his ridiculousness.

"Yes, your _wiles_, and don't pretend you don't have them." He winced, readying himself for a stinger from her sharp tongue, but she only huffed. "So . . . anyway, I think he's not so bad, for an Orlesian, and the way you get at _me_ sometimes . . . I just wanted to warn him, but everything just started pouring out! You can't know how frustrated I've been." Alistair shook his head, unable to look at her, certain she was getting ready to rake him over the coals. "I've done the best that I can do, Gwyn, I wake up _every_ morning trying to do my best, but it's not enough for you. I'm not trying to piss you of, really I'm not, but you fly off the hilt so easily!" He braved a look, and she was watching him intently, but her face could be a statue for the life on it.

"You never have to _try_, you always manage to irritate me with very little effort on your part." Gwyneth pressed both thumbs against the bridge of her nose, pinching it and releasing a pent up sigh, her voice devoid of the shrieking anger or sadness of the previous evening, but not without a different weight. "I'm just so tired, Alistair, I'm tired of you watching me and waiting for me to be someone that I'm not. This _is_ me. All that I am is bound up in the dictates of nobility, and if you don't like it, than that's your prerogative, but you had options. I had no qualms about Leliana remaining at the palace. Would there have been rumors? Oh, I'm fair certain there would have been, but it's not as if a king having affairs outside his vows is atypical, and I would've dealt with it. _You_ are the one who sent her away, and your misery is your own." He went to protest but she surged forward. "Maybe . . . _maybe_, I don't like it that you talk about her in your sleep all the time, but that's because it's just a reminder that you resent me for being someone other than _her_. How do you think that makes me feel? Undervalued and underappreciated."

He couldn't really protest that, because some of it held a grain of truth, but she wasn't blameless and he wanted to make sure she knew that. "I'll . . . I'll try harder, alright? But _you_ have to give _me_ something in return."

"More than I have already?"

"A _lot_ more. You hardly ever say you're sorry. Instead, you either try to blame me, or you think you can wait it out and I'll forget what you said. I want you to apologize for all the nasty things you've said to me, right here and right now, _and_ I want you to _mean_ it." Alistair folded his arms, a mirror to his wife as she spluttered at that.

"That's ridiculous! What if I'm _not_ sorry, how am I suppose to apologize and 'mean it' then, hmm?" She had to have him there. Except she didn't.

"Then I guess this conversation is over, and we can both look forward to hating each other for the rest of our miserable lives."

"I . . ." Gwyneth choked on her first words, looking at him through the security of low drawn lashes. It was harder than she expected, but there _were_ things she was sorry for, and he hadn't specified what moments or words he'd taken exception to. So it could be anything really, and there's where Gwyneth found her apology. "I'm sorry I always respond with cruelty when you hurt my feelings. I'm sorry I can't always be honest and that I don't trust you enough to tell you how I feel. I'm sorry that I flirt to get information that I want, and that sometimes I enjoy the attention anyway, though I don't know why you care. I'm sorry for all the things I can't change and all the times we don't understand each other, and the things I say to perpetuate that in my anger."

Alistair scowled. "That's not much of a . . . "

Her voice dropped as her hand raised to touch his cheek. "But mostly, I'm sorry that we can't be friends anymore, because I miss you. I miss your dumb jokes that made everyone laugh, even Sten who pretended he wasn't, though it was hard to tell, really. I _don't_ miss that wretched rat stew that you tried to pass off as lamb meat, but I _do_ miss how cheerful you were about it, even though you knew it tasted terrible. I miss how when we used to insult each other, it was playful, like two siblings at the breakfast table, instead of vicious and hurtful." Gwyneth's thumb rubbed against the thick stubble at the corner of his mouth. "I'm sorry you had to marry me, but not because I hate you, I don't. I never could even if I wanted to, even if sometimes I come close, I never cross that line. What makes me sorry, is that it ruined the both of us and for all my speech craft, I can't talk my way out of _this_ mess. So yes, Alistair. I _am _sorry." She was on the verge of crying, she could feel the salty water collecting by her tear ducts, but she held it together. Her father would be proud.

"Gwyneth . . ." He was at a loss for words, just looking at her, finally some open honesty on her face, did him in. "How do you _do_ that? How do I go from thinking you're the most infuriating woman I know, to . . ."

"To what?" She watched him, a little wary of what he might respond with.

Later, the king wouldn't be able to say what made him do it. It certainly wasn't the aroma of the stables, or the terrible apology his queen offered, but no matter the cause, he found his hands at her elbows. Holding her there, readying to push her away, a bit of both, and then he kissed her. The taste of dry lips and long chewed mint leaves met him, Gwyneth jerking back in shock before she relaxed, taut arms unfurling so she could rest her hands on his triceps. It was somewhat awkward, and not very romantic, but it was sincere, and that alone was rare enough to make Alistair want more of it. After they parted to catch their breath, and he leaned forward to claim her lips again, she pulled back and he met her ear instead, nose pressed against the soft hair above it.

"What was that noise?" Gwyneth's pose hadn't changed, but she was alert, neck turned so she could look out one of the main archways.

"Ignore it." Alistair surprised himself with that, but he meant it, taking a hand to her jaw to turn her face back, but she was free of him, moving towards the entrance. "Gwyn." With a sigh he had no choice but to follow. '_Well, that was nice while it lasted_.'

* * *

Nathaniel Howe was being dragged across the courtyard. Gwyneth felt a pit of dread, certain that someone had decided to hang him early, and she had no desire to see it. At first she couldn't figure out why he was fighting the guards so much, wrenching his lean body this way and that. He was yelling at them, but it took a moment for the queen to process what was being said.

Commander Caron had a hold of one the prisoner's arms himself, the apostate mage he'd collected not far behind, though wisely staying out of reach of Nathaniel's flailing limbs. The Warden glanced briefly in the direction of the stables, maybe sensing the royal couple there, but apart from a momentary flinch of his shoulders, he kept his reaction hidden.

"You can't do this to me! Hang me first! I won't do it, I _won't_!" Nathaniel all but screamed, as wild as an angry bear, oddly enough the insignia of his stripped house. He followed the commander's gaze, eyes wide and flaring when he caught sight of the queen. "You bitch, you miserable, conniving harpy! _You_ did this, I know you did!" He beseeched the commander. "Be a man, don't let her use you!"

That made Gerod look at the very confused king and queen again, his head hung low, but he was resolute. "The decision is not yours, and if I have to tie you down and pour it down your throat, you _will_ take part!" The Orlesian's voice was angrier than it had ever been since he'd arrived in Ferelden.

Alistair stood beside Gwyneth, feeling like he was missing something, but her face reflected the same. His lost moment with his wife not forgotten, but all caught up in this new chaos. "You told me Ser Caron refused to spare Master Howe the noose when you spoke to him."

Gwyneth nodded slowly, eyes unable to leave the scene unfolding before her. "That's what he said. I don't . . . I don't understand what's happening."

Nathaniel had managed to break free from his captors, long legs giving him an advantage as he ran full force for the gates, and the king's knights that waited there with the caravan. Hoping for a escape or a quick death, it wasn't certain. Ser William turned, drawing his sword, even if he wasn't entirely sure of the situation, but the prisoner never made it that far.

Blue dim energy collected behind him, wrapping long unnatural tendrils around his torso and holding the man stiff where he was. The mage that had done it, was able to walk up behind him then, an arrogant grin on that handsome face. "Here now, old son, all this shouting is scaring the locals." He turned to the commander as he reached the pair of them. "This will hold him for a while, but it'd be a might easier just to hang the rotter, don't you think?"

"Easier is not always better, ser mage. I don't think I have to tell _you_ that." Gerod studied the prone prisoner, before turning back to his healer. A handy sort to be certain. "Thank you Master Anders, that was quick thinking on your part."

Anders gave a flourished bow. "It's what I do. Can't very well escape from the tower if you're slow."

Gerod's half ruined mouth turned up in a lopsided smile. "Perhaps, but in the future, let's try to refrain from using magic like that out here in the courtyard. I think it's making everyone a little uneasy."

"Or it could be the yelling wild man." Anders shrugged at the perturbed glances he got for his trouble. "I'm just saying, is all."

The commander only shook his head, briefly amused before he ordered the guards to take Nathaniel into the keep. "Do what you have to, I don't want him getting away, but be gentle. We aren't brutes here." He rubbed the back of his neck, a crick there caused by his sleeplessness last night. "Master Anders, if you could go collect Ser Mhairi and Master Oghren, and bring them to the main hall. I need to speak with all of you."

Anders didn't like being a messenger, but he had little better to do, and only nodded before heading off. He tipped his head at the king and queen as they passed, but neither of them paid him much mind. '_Typical stuck up nobility_.' The mage thought snidely before he disappeared around a bend.

Gerod saw them approach and girded himself for the reaction he'd garner. "Majesty, My Queen." Whatever the couple's anger towards each other last evening, it appeared to have abated enough that the queen had her arm wound around her husband's as she walked beside him. Gerod felt one corner of his mouth twitching, wanting so desperately to grimace in jealousy that he couldn't deny. They would fight and press their troubles on him, but then the next day they got over it, and he was to be reminded of what he couldn't have. It was not unlike being parched and reaching for your canteen, only to find it empty.

"Commander, what is going on here?" Alistair wasted no time in getting to the point.

_'Did she tell her husband what she told me, did she shout and scream at him, before it all ended in a passionate marriage bed, where the king soothed her with his touch? Does he know how I looked at her portrait all night, torn in half by what I planned to do, those painted eyes burning into me?' _Gerod pressed his lids together, a second to compose himself, before he was forcing a calm he didn't feel. He looked to the queen, and she was watching him warily. Maybe she hadn't told her husband anything, after all.

The commander had to be careful, for all the honor he had in the Grey Wardens, it was plain to see that the king held just as much honor, and the decision that had been made would not go over so smoothly. His relationship with the new monarch could be fruitful, or it could set him to ruin, and Gerod doubted his actions today would be all that positive. All through the evening he had thought about it until it nearly made him ill. The queen still haunted him, as her words had, filling him with guilt and self-doubt. Gerod had built a life for himself, that he had always known would end in sacrifice. It was the way of the world in which he was a part of. He couldn't just put that behind him, no more than he could think of the Grey Wardens as anything other than his salvation . . . but she wasn't wrong entirely. The order _had_ forced people to join against their will in the past, though it was rare, and hardly publicized, but less rare were the coerced members, who hadn't been told what their decision entailed. Joining the Wardens might not have been a punishment, but it wasn't a reward either, a fact made clear by the secrecy that shrouded it.

"I have decided to conscript Nathaniel Howe. He will serve this country, that his father betrayed with his actions, by cleansing it of the foulness that yet plagues the lands of Ferelden." Gerod would've said that Nathaniel would die, one way or the other. The Maker would take him if he didn't pass the Joining, and if he did, than his Calling would be his end. However, out in the open, it wasn't wise to discuss matters with those outside the order, and the commander held his tongue on that score, hoping King Alistair understood. "He will be beside me, where I can keep an eye on him, and I will be certain that he is not rewarded by this. There will be no heroism that grants him redemption under my watch, if he so wishes to earn it, than it will be for himself alone."

Alistair felt his eyes narrowing, the tightness at the corners uncomfortable and severe. His voice was much the same. "It seems you have figured it all out. Did my queen convince you to do this?" He turned his jaundiced gaze on the woman in question, regretting all over again that she'd managed to get under his skin, and in the next moment only proved why she was so untrustworthy. He had hoped that she was being honest, and in the stables, he'd been touched by her words, _and yet here they were again and _. . .

Gerod shook his head. "No. Her Majesty suggested only that he be spared, if not for his own sake than to avoid his wish for martyrdom. She would have been happy with seeing him perform guard duties. It was myself, and myself alone, that decided on conscription. It is my right as Warden Commander, is it not?"

The king was startled by that, and he wasn't the only one. Gwyneth's eyes almost fell out of her sockets in her shock, but she quickly gathered herself together, grateful that Alistair's surprise had turned his eyes from her for the moment. "Ser Caron . . . this is . . . this is unexpected." Gwyneth realized he had thought long on the matter after she stormed out on him, he must have, and if he meant to spare her blame in the decision far be it for her to deny his wishes, but she was cautious. A half smile was painted on her face, the mask there one of surprise, though it was honest enough at his words, if not the plan they presented.

"To say the least." Alistair added, still glowering. "It _is_ your right, yes, but this is _wrong_. When we spoke you seemed to know how honorable the order was, and yet you would bring a _prisoner_, the son of a traitor, into those esteemed ranks? How can _you_ want to do this?"

His knights tried not to watch, though the guards milling around the courtyard, and the few servants that were out, weren't nearly as respectful. Gwyneth turned her gaze to those whose curiosity got the better of them, sending them scurrying when she narrowed sharp irises on them.

Gwyneth expected that reaction. Alistair had been violently vehement against the idea of conscripting Loghain, and she'd stood by him. Though certainly that reasoning had been very personal for Alistair, and Gwyneth deduced that this situation wasn't precisely the same, even if the concept of joining the order remained as honorable a thing to the king's skewed sense of it. 'He_ hadn't been the one carted off while his parents were left to die_.' The queen's own illogical pattern of blame for that had always fallen to Duncan, and she'd never decided to forgive the man, even after he was long dead. Though she gave herself credit for avoiding spitting on the man's name in Alistair's ear.

"Majesty, don't think to question the value I place on my brothers in Orlais, who took me in when I was at my lowest. They gave me pride and purpose again, and there is nothing I wouldn't do for my former commander, but let us not pretend that my situation and yours are how it _always_ is. You know that isn't the way of it." Gerod held his head high, disagreeing with the sovereign of a nation was not a thing to which a man should slouch. It required a strong character, and the Warden commander had been building to this for some length of hours. The bystanders not completely forgotten, and the cause of Gerod's drop in volume, but they became less important as he pressed his issue. "We both know that conscription is hardly used in _clean_ matters where one wishes to join and can, it's the desperate measure that separates Grey Wardens from knights or militia. They serve a country, or a lord. Grey Wardens serve the people only so far as the threat of the darkspawn, it's what we are trained for, and the only thing that matters to us. That politics has become an aspect we've had to take up for necessity, doesn't make that purpose any different. You know that kind of life is no reward, it's born from exigency alone, no matter the value brothers such as you and I may place on it for our own personal reasons."

For a brief flicker, the corner of his eye took in the queen, recalling the words he'd used to her to negate her own justification for what he was now doing. He'd seen it as a punishment, and the idea had settled like bile in his guts, his refusal coming quickly, and yet the more he thought of it, the more she'd chipped away at his resolve. He wasn't blinded to the vendetta the woman would have against the Howe family, and he wasn't fool enough to believe her reasoning was entirely altruistic, but it didn't make the concept any less valuable, and Gerod wondered how it was that just a few words from her had managed to change his stance so easily. Now that he'd gone through with it, there could be no turning back, and Gerod wouldn't let her husband blame _her_ for it, and so he stood there, stiff and unyielding in the shadow of the king's displeasure.

"I don't need to be reminded of the duties of the Grey Wardens, _Commander_ Caron, but I can't condone this, I'm sorry."

Gwyneth cleared her throat, disengaging from her husband's arm. "This isn't like Loghain, you know. This isn't placing a murdering traitor in a position where he can be a hero. This is putting the _son_ of a murdering traitor, in a place where he'll be forced to see the true threat to this country, and know that his father was wrong, that he was indeed foul in his suspicions. Nathaniel Howe won't be a martyr, and that's clearly what he wanted. To let him hang, _that_ would be making him a martyr. This seems a means of justice, and with the Wardens so short on numbers here in Ferelden now, it's a public service."

Alistair snorted. "Why am I not surprised? Look, this is hardly the place to be . . ."

She didn't let him finish, flicking her long braid behind one shoulder, and offering Commander Caron a smile that was three fourths diplomacy and one fourth '_just go with this, alright?' _"Besides, once someone has been conscripted, you can't go back from that, no more than you can from wishing to join in the first place. Wasn't it something similar that Commander Duncan told that one man . . . oh, what was his name? Let me think . . . ah yes, of course, _Jory_." Both men there knew of who she spoke of, but Alistair knew from more than just her relaying the events, he'd _been_ there, and Gwyneth saw him flinch in that memory.

"Ah, Majesty, perhaps the king is right. This should be discussed somewhere else." Gerod cautioned, watching the tense interplay between the two royals.

Gwyneth was aware of their audience, and sought to use that to press her advantage. There was only so much Alistair could say in public, and it would cow his words in a way that would be lost in private, where it seemed the young king had gained quite a length of backbone since he'd been crowned. Though there was a caution that Gwyneth herself would have to take, but she'd been well accustomed to public speaking and the nuance of 'the crowd.' She ducked her head, a play that was demure and sad, shaking it lightly. "You'll both have to forgive me for being so impassioned, truly. After what that fiend did to me . . . and to think that his son would crow out that somehow my family was deserving of such a horrid fate, only to escape the weight of his words by way of the noose. It's abominable!" Her eyes were wide and luminous on Alistair's face, drawing him in. "Rendon Howe _spit_ on the Couslands as he _spit_ on the Wardens and _Nathaniel_ Howe perpetuates that dishonorable thinking. Surely, My King, you have to see that this is the _only _way that the Wardens and my _poor_ family can get justice, and the only way to keep from standing by while a man walks to the gallows in a way that is tantamount to observed _suicide_." Let the people of Vigil's Keep hear _that_, let them think on her as the undeserved victim of whatever poison Nathaniel had managed to spew since he'd been back in Ferelden.

Alistair knew better than to trust that Gwyneth's public sorrow was altogether genuine, but her melancholia was biting and contagious, the glittering threat of tears at the corners of those eyes enough to sway him. She'd been there when he beheaded Loghain, taken his blood soaked fingers in hers to squeeze his hand in a show of support, and he felt that contact again. Her hand slid over his own, his knuckles taught as he clenched his fist, but at her touch they loosened enough that she could twine their fingers together as she peered up at him with eyes that always saw too much and asked even more.

"Will you not give me this, My King?" She asked, her voice a woven tapestry of vulnerability and hidden affection, that used the recent memory of their awkward kiss in the stables to her advantage, hinting at some meaning beyond the words. There was a twinge behind her ribs as she realized it wasn't as faked a notion as she was putting on, but there wasn't any time to focus on that. "I ask you only for the support that _I_ gave _you, _when fate was the only thing that stood between us."

Brown eyes were closed tightly, Alistair's mind battling itself behind them. Her fingers were feather light, but their length was like steel bands for the severity they represented. He sighed, all the air leaving his body to take his anger with it. Maker help him, but for all the weaknesses he had, he could get past all of them, except _her_. "Alright. If he's been conscripted, then there's not much we can do now. " He leveled his gaze at the commander. "But I put this on _your _head, Commander Caron, the responsibility is yours. I wash my hands of it." With that, he stalked off, towards the knights and the caravan that would see him out of there.

His chagrin wasn't gone, and he wasn't happy with his own decision. Gwyneth knew she'd have to deal with that later, and it wouldn't be very pleasant, but for the moment Alistair had conceded and _she'd_ won. She couldn't hold back the small smile that curved her mouth, or the sigh of relief, though her confusion of the surprising turn of events remained. As she would've looked to Ser Caron, he was dismal, excusing himself to walk away from the dangerous move he'd chosen to make on her behalf. There was little time left to say anything to the man, and those words would most certainly require a privacy that Gwyneth would be hard pressed to justify without her husband at her side. Not in the middle of the morning, and not with their departure so soon upon them.

Gerod stopped on the wide stairs that led to the second tier of the courtyard, the queen staring at him from that distance. In the space between them, caught up in that long look was the remaining question. 'Why, why had he done it?" Gerod knew the answer, Gwyneth did not, but both of them understood that it couldn't be taken back. Whatever the consequences, the hand of fate had done its work, aided by mortal will, both selfish and determined.


	35. Chapter 35: Thunderstruck

**Disclaimer:** _"Dragon Age: Origins" and all its expansions and additional content is the property of Bioware and EA Games. Large portions of written content within the game, as well as Dragon's Age: The Stolen Throne, and Dragon's Age: Calling, are the creation of David Gaider. Original scenarios and characters are used under the creative license of the writer, ItalianEmpress1985. No profit is being made and the following story is for entertainment purposes only_

**Words From The Author: **_Capshain leather is fine, soft supple leather that was used often in the dark ages for riding cloaks, and is mentioned in a lot of themed literature from that period where the nobility often used it for armor as well, with sturdier padding beneath if there was to be a 'real' battle, though of course the nobles themselves tried to avoid that. I liked the sound of it, and it seemed to suit this story and seemed like the kind of leather Gwyneth would prefer, so if you run across that later, you won't think it's a typo hopefully. Though the Maker knows I have plenty of those, huh? ;)_

_No Gerod this installment, so no Joining ritual. I know, I know, I'm awful. This chapter was more Gwyneth/Alistair focused, but the Joining DOES happen in the next chapter, of that you have my word, and after that . . . political drama!_

_I dedicate this chapter to any of my readers that actually HAVE gone out during a downpour (especially during a hot summer afternoon) to get washed off. It's harder than it sounds. :p_

_Thank you for stopping in. Watch out for low flying dragons!_

* * *

_**Chapter Thirty Five:**_

_**Thunderstruck**_

* * *

**B**ack and forth, rich brown irises ticked as Alistair settled himself on his saddle, watching Gwyneth lead her own mount, a lightly speckled tan mare. It was a plain palfrey, and he was frankly surprised she hadn't requested something cliché, like a fine white stallion with a glowing mane to ride around as if she were indeed Andraste, carried about on the light of the Maker. Bold, bright 'statements' like that had been Gwyneth's wont since Alistair had first met her, in a suit of fine capshain leather, white laurels sewn into it, that all but screamed 'look at me, look at me!' He'd known those things about her, and despite them, had begun to like her over the course of the Blight, when those sharp edges she possessed were worn smooth by circumstance. Then he'd married her and began to hate his shiny new bride instead, except Alistair had never quite achieved that emotion in full.

'_Not because I hate you, I don't. I never could even if I wanted to, even if sometimes I come close, I never cross that line_.' She'd said to him in the stables. Maybe they had something in common after all.

So there he sat, with the unpleasant realization that he would continue to cave to her demands. Somehow, someway, Gwyneth would get at him. Honeyed words that made him forget she'd become treacherous, venomous insults that cut away at his resolve like a sharp blade, tears that made him want nothing more than to soothe her hurts, or the very worst. Her rare and drawing honesty, those few times that she opened herself to him, and drew her king in so far that Alistair thought he was losing bits of his mind when it happened.

'_Will you not give me this, my king_?' Her eyes watching him, wide and open, hooks that grabbed at his willpower to say no. With that, he'd given in to her, turned his back on his own values for what she wanted. Before Alistair had married Gwyneth, he would've done anything to prevent a stain on the Wardens, instead he'd told Ser Caron that he washed his hands of the situation. _Like a coward_. He snorted, tucking one of his beaded braids behind his ear, and reaching around to straighten the collar of his purple cloak. When he'd stalked away from Commander Caron and his frustrating queen, he'd felt at least triumphant in maintaining _some_ dignity. _Maybe his values had been compromised, but Alistair would be damned if anyone thought him weak for it_. There'd been enough of that throughout his life. Now, though, looking through the gates as the soldiers opened them, it felt a bit more like running away. It couldn't be helped, he told himself and it was mostly true.

They couldn't stay for the Joining, it wasn't his place or Gwyneth's anymore, and both of them had an appointment in Rainesfere with most of those banns collected together in the cut up lands of the Bannorn. So many people all fighting for pride of place in a territory that not a one of them could lay claim to. Alistair half thought the damned Bannorn could use an arl to manage everyone, except if he brought that concept forward, the fighting between all of them would probably only increase. _Greedy little cusses, the lot of them_. Except Bann Teagan perhaps. It was that friendly relationship that Alistair based the location for their meeting on.

Alistair smiled at the thought of the younger of his adopted uncles. Teagan had always been the friendlier of the surviving Guerreins, though Alistair could admit he'd had a bit less scrutiny to contend with than Eamon, but he retained a fondness for the Bann of Rainesfere. Yet even that seemed tainted by Gwyneth. He remembered walking into the chantry of Redcliffe on that desperate morning, the bann looking haggard and tired, but he'd brightened to recognize Alistair and it had warmed the young Warden. Then Teagan's eyes had fallen on Gwyneth, and that was it, the rest of the conversation caught up in a game of who could be more charming while meting out how to help the village.

Every time he tried not to think about her, some thread would lead right back to his wife again. He watched her as Ser Amstead helped the queen up onto her saddle, and Alistair was forced to quell his displeasure at it. Considering the disaster of an argument that reaction had caused earlier, in part, he was going to make every effort to bury whatever suspicions inconveniently rose up, in so far as his knights were concerned. He couldn't set aside his misgivings about Gerod and Gwyneth so easily as all that. She hadn't denied it, and he hadn't pressed the issue, maybe it was better not really knowing, but it didn't _feel_ better.

Alistair half expected the Warden Commander to see them off, but the wretched look on the man's face suggested that he had his own demons to contend with, and whatever anger the king had towards the man for his decision, there was some sympathy in that. Gwyneth wasn't wrong in everything, either, it _wasn't_ like the situation with Loghain even if it felt vastly similar, and this time, the person with the most cause for personal vengeance was Gwyneth herself, and yet she'd rather see Nathaniel Howe conscripted than hung. Whether it was paranoia or empathy, Alistair wasn't sure, and his wife certainly didn't make it easy to find out. It was confusing, it made him second guess himself and wish his life was a hell of a lot simpler. Which was mostly on par with his married life to date. A self deprecating sneer curled his upper lip, but was wiped off when Gwyneth managed to bring her horse beside his.

"We didn't even say goodbye to anyone." Her voice held a rare lament, as she craned her neck to look behind her. "I wanted to at least wish Ser Mhairi well and give our blessing to Ser Caron for the Joining."

"_Our_ blessing? What makes you think _I'd_ want to do that? That's like saying I agree with him, and giving in isn't the same thing as agreement." He narrowed his eyes at her, wrapping the excess length of his reins in one fist as a way of keeping himself under control, though he was cautious to keep it slack enough that his mount didn't react.

"I know that, but just because you aren't pleased with one of his recruits, doesn't mean he shouldn't have our blessing."

"_Recruit_? That's a funny way to put it, seeing as how the man was kicking and screaming to get away." Alistair scoffed under his breath, though loud enough for the woman beside him to hear, but Gwyneth only shrugged, blatantly ignoring actuality.

"It's only fair. We are the ones that installed Ser Caron here, and it's more responsibility he's inherited than many Warden Commanders before him." She was bold enough to close the distance between them with one hand, placing one over his own, and was glad that he didn't wrench it away. Though that didn't mean she was getting anywhere with him. "Alistair, I know you're unhappy about this, but I wanted to thank you for . . ."

"No." The king shook his head, making every effort to look forward so he wasn't looking at _her_, and ignoring her words of gratitude. "I gave him Duncan's Joining chalice, that's more than blessing enough, and we need to make up the time we lost. There isn't any left for drawn out goodbyes. I'm not good at them anyway."

Gwyneth frowned, trying to peer at him, but he wouldn't even turn his head. Her gloved fingers ran over his, making an attempt to twine them together. "But I . . ." Those thin lips were drawn down even further when he pulled his hand out from under hers. He wasn't going to make this easy, but then she didn't really know what else she should have expected.

"We need to move on." Forcing a haughtiness that wasn't truly his, Alistair straightened his back, issuing his command to Ser William, who took up the traditional head of their caravan. He clicked his tongue, urging his mount forward, finally turning to look at Gwyneth. "Well?" His irritation was showing, fraying at the edges of whatever composure he'd been managing up until then.

She sighed, her normal reaction to rail at him and force him to bend under her own will, all but gone. Gwyneth realized she felt exhausted. Where she should have been jubilant that Gerod had changed his mind, that Alistair had conceded . . . she was just tired, though her sleep last night, however late in coming, had been blissfully free of nightmares. Gwyneth scowled at her husband, but nodded, before she was edging forward with the rest of them. As Alistair moved up closer to Ser William, Gwyneth looked back at the receding courtyard of Vigil's Keep.

A glint of light caught her eyes, as they traveled up those worn battlements. She couldn't be certain, but it seemed like it might have been Ser Caron up there, watching them leave. Gwyneth wished even more that she'd found some time to speak to the commander before they left, but she was all out of good excuses. She saluted at the figure, smiling even if he couldn't see it, but then whoever it was went back inside and she was forced to swing her gaze back to the wagon rutted road before her. The young queen may have gotten what she wanted, but still Nathaniel's fate wasn't so certain, and as with all things there was a cost for getting ones way.

* * *

June 8'th, 9:31, Dragon Age

The first night they spent out of Vigil's Keep was quiet and uneventful, Gwyneth sleeping in the covered wagon with Noble close at her side. She was already asleep when Alistair joined her, just as he'd planned to do. He had no desire to be drawn into conversation, and almost considered joining Ser William instead, but he'd already committed to staying with Gwyneth and he wasn't going to back out. He hadn't slept well though and he was already feeling it in his back by the time midday came around.

Shifting in his saddle, his eyes followed the winding Coastway Road before their party, drifting to the woods on the left and the steep seaside cliffs on the right. It ran from Amaranthine to the port town of Dunharrow, until it curved southward for another four miles before it connected with the more traveled North Road. Ser William had intended it to be a reprieve from heading back through the Wending Wood. Increased rumors of caravan attacks on the shrouded sections of the Pilgrim's Path convinced Alistair of the wisdom of that decision, but while this route was less traveled it also had a sense of loneliness that was seeping into him.

Long stretches of nothing, with only the sound of waves crashing far below them to accompany their journey. The thick pines that made up most of the trees on the other side of the rutted road weren't as foreboding as those in the Wending Wood, but they had grown so tightly together that it felt more like a wall than a forest. It was a route favored by woodsman and fishing fanatics, dotted with old ruins, some so ancient that they had to have been built during the golden age of the Tevinter Imperium. Others were more recent, abandoned keeps of Orlesian lords that had fled while King Maric was stomping out the last vestiges of the occupation.

The weather had held so far, and that was at least pleasant, but as high noon came and went, the skies darkened, the air filled with the tang damp of an incoming tempest, and coastal storms could be especially nasty. They struck abruptly and often with little warning, and Alistair could see the evidence of old lightning strikes in the burnt husks of trees, their dark and spindly limbs like scorched bones, taking refuge amongst brothers and sisters whose arms were still full of pine needles.

Gwyneth looked up, bright eyes peering out from under her cowl as she drew it close in defense of the incoming rain, looking sidelong at Noble. The mabari was crouched on the driver's seat of the cargo wagon, the man beside him patting his head with his free hand, the other wound up in the reins as both man and mabari pressed themselves into the back of their seat, hoping the wooden overhang would shelter them. Gwyneth smiled in pity at her poor hound, he _hated _storms.

It came in slow at first, just a mist that became sprinkling droplets, and Gwyneth raised her face to welcome the cool relief against her tired cheeks, before she'd pulled the cowl in again.

"We need to get off the road, I don't want to get caught up in a thundershower." Alistair called ahead to Ser William, and already his knights were preparing, looking for a place to make camp. "Were any of the ruins safe enough to take shelter in while the storm passes?" He tried not to grumble, but they were already delayed and another stop wasn't going to help. The banns wouldn't be pleased, not that they usually were. Even in Alistair's short experience with the lot of them, he knew that much.

"I think so, Sire, there was one a ways back past that last bend. Hard to see through that copse of cliff pines, but it wasn't too far and we could make it there soon enough." Ser Boughton was elected the unofficial scout of the Knights of Denerim, and if he said he'd seen it, he wasn't wrong.

Alistair nodded as their party hurried to get turned around. A hot white streak flashed across the darkening sky, bright and brief, illuminating the trees in an eerie aura. The king blinked at it, as a loud clap followed, the rumbling echo of the thunder across the heavy horizon promising more where that came from. There was no pause after that, as the clouds opened and the sprinkles became a downpour, the pleasant pattering of rain now made into an onslaught, the torrent quickly turning the dirt road into a path of mud and muck.

"You were saying?" Gwyneth's mocking response had to almost be shouted to be heard. She only winked at Alistair's scowl, not put off by it in the slightest, since she knew that for once he was more agitated with the weather than her. Noble cowered into himself and she called out to him. "Oh baby, it'll be alright. We'll get somewhere dry soon, you'll see."

The rumbling overhead made Alistair feel extremely nervous, and though he was a man long grown, he couldn't help but remember boyhood fears that the world was falling apart whenever a severe storm had come in off Lake Calenhad. He shifted on his saddle again, clothes already soaked as he tried to see through the haze created by the curtain of rain around them.

It was an uncomfortable trip leaving the road for the less even terrain of the scant land granted to the coast, but there was a sigh of relief as an old path became clear through the long grass and scraggly pines. Hunters or fisherman must have used the keep, or the trail would've been long overgrown by then. The canopy of trees that covered the thin path had probably been charming at one time, when the abandoned keep still had permanent residents. Alistair was still hard pressed to imagine any fancy Orlesians wanting to live so far away from a city, but he supposed even those that were imported during the occupation might have had a good idea that the usurper king was mad as a March hare. The further away from Meghren they were, the better they likely felt.

Half of the gray stone keep was covered in vines, but it looked surprisingly intact for all that, though the effects of its lonely state were evident in ruined doors, the wood having long ago moldered and rotted away. One corner of a half finished tower was showing signs of a heavy lean, and Alistair thought it probably wouldn't be long before the swift salty sea wind whipped up over the sharp crags behind it, and brought the tower down. He hoped that day wasn't _today_.

The courtyard was littered with debris, but dry. As their party passed warily under an intricately carved archway, Alistair looked up to find an intact ceiling high above their heads, dim and dusty for the bare light that filtered in from the arrow-frame windows. The storm made it darker still, and rain escaped inside through the now glassless openings, but the water seemed secluded to the exterior walls.

"It's _filthy_." Gwyneth wrinkled her nose, nearly bringing a sleeve to cover it until she remembered her clothes were drenched.

Alistair laughed at how ridiculous the complaint was, _what exactly had she been expecting from an abandoned holding that was only a few decades shy of being a full fledged ruin?_ He remembered ancient complaints from the same woman. A snagged nail on the road leading into Redcliffe, a stone that made its way into her boot somehow on the way up into the Frostback Mountains, the singed corner of a cloak from maleficar fire in the infested circle tower. _'Ahh, good times. No, wait, actually, that was all pretty annoying._' He smirked at his inner dialogue, before raising a brow at the red headed whiner beside him. "You'd rather we camped out on the road?"

"I wouldn't say _that_." She sniffed, put off by his laughter, pulling back on her drenched cowl and eyeing it with disgust before tossing it behind her head, and wincing at the uncomfortable wet slap of soaked clothes on damp skin. "At least Ser Boughton found us somewhere dry." Gwyneth smiled at their resident scout, the man saluting cutely before Ser William had the lot of the knights working to bring the caravans in and set up a makeshift camp inside the interior courtyard.

"Right . . . " Alistair scowled, bounding off his horse with an ease of one practiced with the action. He walked over to his wife's mount, to find that maintaining dignity while looking _up_ at her was somewhat difficult, but he managed. "Because it wasn't as if _I_ had anything to do with the decision."

"Fishing for gratitude?" Her reply was as low voiced for privacy as his had been.

"Would it hurt for you to give me some? I think you owe me." He all but pouted as she looked down at him with that irritating all important smirk, but there was a glint in her eyes that made him uneasy.

"Maybe I do." She looked around, trying to find where to put her feet in order to get down. The dimness made it hard to see. "Ugh! Someone needs to make saddles that are more appropriate for _refined_ women . . ." Gwyneth tried to search out Ser Amstead, who was usually more than willing to help her off her palfrey, but he was busy tying up the pack mules.

"Here, _I've_ got you, Gwyn, just slide off slowly." The offer was gruff and to the point, but after a wary glance, she shrugged, doing just that. For a brief moment, she was in the circle of his arms, and Alistair remembered being in that stable with her. Her lack of reaction to that surprising kiss left him unsettled, even if there were greater things to worry about, and for a few seconds he wanted to repeat the action, force her to respond with something more than apathy.

A howling mabari ended that line of thought.

Noble bounded down from the covered wagon, stubby tail trying to curl in fright as the normally brave mabari was reduced to a cowardly pup with the next rumble of thunder. The large muscled hound wiggled his way between the bodies of his mistress and her husband, rubbing that broad head against Gwyneth's legs as he whimpered and howled. The queen's fixed gaze on Alistair's face melted into kindness and pitying affection as she focused on the royal hound instead. She hunkered down, forgetting about her dirty surroundings for a time, as she cooed at Noble. "Oh, shush now! It's alright, yes it is, don't you worry. We're safe in here."

Alistair shook his head at the ridiculous image. Noble could tear the throat from an enemy in battle, looking like the fiercest creature in the world, and now he was an overgrown version of a yappy lap dog from Orlais. Gwyneth's cooing went on for some minutes, holding Noble as if she were cradling a child, her concern for personal hygiene somewhat lacking of the fear of smelling like wet dog. It was obvious Alistair wasn't going to get much more out of her, and instead of standing there and feeling awkward, he made to assist his knights.

The day had proven itself quite uncomfortable, in more ways than one.

* * *

Dust motes floated in the dim courtyard, disturbed by the unexpected visitors, and Gwyneth felt the musty air they'd kicked up trying to lodge itself in her nostrils, making her sneeze. Noble had eventually calmed down enough to slink into one of the wagons, where he'd probably hide for the remainder of the storm, and left his mistress to her solitude.

The thundershower raged on outside as Gwyneth leaned against a column, watching the downpour through the open archway, the wind blowing back the spray to make a mist against her face. It was tall and wide enough to bring the wagons inside, and for that she was grateful, but that also meant it provided little shield against the cool, wet air. They'd been there for hours, and the hope that the tempest was short lived began to wane, as did the day. The horizon was growing dimmer, and the young queen feared they'd have to spend the night in the abandoned holding. She'd been wishing that they'd at least made it to Dunharrow where they could have gotten a room at the inn, Alistair and herself, and more importantly, Gwyneth could've gotten a hot bath, but that wasn't likely to happen now. She cocked her head, turning it to watch the scant activity of the equally dismal company of knights. Alistair caught her gaze and only inclined his head briefly in recognition.

Another evening spent sleeping with him as he tried to convince himself of how much he despised her, except Gwyneth was beginning to suspect that he really didn't. She gritted her teeth, feeling the pressure of them grinding together. '_Impossible man_!' Usually it was _her_ avoiding uncomfortable conversations, and she hated herself for the fact that the tables had turned, and more so because she couldn't seem to draw him in. Maybe she really _was_ losing her touch.

The thunder was a distant rumbling now, but the torrent of rain had abated little. Gwyneth turned to watch it again, the sounds of light industry at her back. So, she'd been right, they _were_ making camp for the night, and Alistair couldn't be bothered to come and tell her. She knew anyway, but that was beside the point, the new king had little concept of marital propriety, and she'd been fairly shocked that'd he even managed to help her from her horse.

She sighed, wrapping her arms around herself, her clothes now uncomfortably warm from her body heat, making their dampness have a humid weight to them. Mud from the road had gotten up onto her boots from the spray of her horse's hooves and was now lines of dark brown on the bottom of her traveling breeches. She smelled of wet clothes and Noble's damp fur. She _smelled_. That fact alone was enough to make Gwyneth irritable, though she was already headed that way some hours ago.

A longing glance sent towards the cargo wagon, and she was turned about to make for it, digging through to find her soaps and some clean clothes. If it wasn't going to stop raining, she'd make use of it. Gwyneth was a coastland girl, she wasn't about to be scared off by some rain.

There was an itch at the base of her skull, damp hair drying with the dust, and as Gwyneth scratched at it, she was drawn back into her current surroundings. She grabbed a piece of cheese cloth that had been covering one of the dried jerky satchels, along with her clothes and the basket of her soaps, trudging past the knights.

Ser Amstead looked up, kneeling down and trying to help set up a fire inside what looked like an old dry fountain. Gwyneth shook her head. This place had been nice once, and now it was reduced to a hold up for desperate travelers and squatters. At his inquiring glance she only smiled. "I need to get clean, this rain must be good for something. I'll only be a moment but I require privacy." He nodded, a murmur shared with the other knights. Gwyneth paused, watching as Alistair was rooting through his own things for a dry pair of socks and boots no doubt. His back stiffened as he listened to her explanation, but he said nothing, soon going back to his task while she turned her head and stalked off.

At first she wasn't quite sure where she was headed, but her investigation of the abandoned holding was short lived. The next room yielded what Gwyneth wanted. It might have been a serving hall of some sort. The youthful girl that lived somewhere under her ribcage might've enjoyed a nicer day on which to explore, but right now she was consumed by the need to get the grime off her skin.

Off to the side was a small open arch, though the queen suspected it had once been the frame for a door. Beyond it was a smaller open courtyard, and when Gwyneth closed her eyes, she could almost see the servants that had walked over it once, bringing in vegetables from a garden perhaps. The image receded as quickly as it had come. She wasn't in the mood for flights of fancy, though the young woman rarely was anyway, and she laid her cheesecloth out on the floor, the dim light outlining her movements. With her clean clothes set on it, she made to get dressed in a chemise from her luggage. Gwyneth wasn't about to wash up naked, not with the knights in the next room over. The walls that would separate them were certainly enough for privacy, but they were a worrisome lot, the Knights of Denerim. If not by their nature, then by duty, and the last thing she wanted was to have Ser Amstead or one of the others, come to check on her and get an eyeful. That kind of incident could cause no end of discomfort.

Her hands went to Cailan's amulet, but they paused. Gwyneth frowned, her fingers stroking along that chain, but she left it there in the end.

She winced at the feel of dusty old stone beneath her bare feet as she padded to the open arch, the tiny hairs on her arms standing up as the damp air hit their bare length. With a bar of scented lye soap, Gwyneth stepped outside, almost shrieking at the first shock of heavy rain on her skin, instantly soaking the chemise straight through. Her hair followed, long locks heavy and drenched against her back, but once the initial surprise of rain on her heated skin ebbed away, it was quite pleasant. The queen smiled through the thick rivulets of water that ran down her face. There was little in life more pleasurable than getting clean once you'd been traveling on the road, and even if she had to go back inside and spend the evening in a dirty abandoned keep, at least she could enjoy herself for a short while.

* * *

"Will we be able to leave at first light, do you think?"

"At first light? I'm not sure, Sire. We'll have to see what the roads are like, if there's too much mud, we won't be able to move the wagons very well."

"Of course." Alistair nodded, smiling at Ser William, because his agitation wasn't with his first knight. He looked to the dimness of the first room off the courtyard, the passage that Gwyneth had last walked through. "I'll have to tell Her Majesty, then. That and make sure she hasn't drowned herself." He added, tersely.

William only grinned, hiding his face so his sovereign wouldn't get angry. He was well aware of the tension that sometimes cropped up between husband and wife. His own wife could get herself worked up on occasion and while William himself was possessed of an even temper, it had its limits. "I'm sure Her Highness is fine, though she would appreciate your concern, I'm certain."

Alistair only huffed at that, debating if he wanted to wait for her to come back to the courtyard or not, and finally his lack of patience won out and he left his knights behind.

The interior of the keep was darker yet, and the king could barely see for the dimness, but for scant light that came in from an open doorway off the side. The wood had rotted away some time ago, but the metal of the hinges still remained, rusted to the side of the gray stone, one stubborn piece blown back by the damp wind that whipped inside. It had died down some, but at the rate it was raining, Alistair was even less certain that they could leave in the morning. Just over the sound of the storm, he thought he heard humming, only seconds before his eyes fell on the pile of clothes sat atop a cloth on the floor.

He cleared his throat, unsure of what state he'd fine Gwyneth in, not daring to move into the doorway. "Gwyn!" He tried once, and then twice more, but she was lost to what he was saying, or the drumming rain had stolen away her ability to hear him. She liked attention, but she wouldn't be brazen enough to standing outside naked . . . '_right?'_ That internal argument didn't seem quite justification enough, but Alistair felt irritable, the idea of waiting for one more thing, making his nerves tick under the skin. "Alright, Gwyn, if you aren't decent then you better . . ." As the king stepped into the doorway, the words died in his throat, eyes tracing the alluring figure standing in the rain.

She had one foot rested up on the edge of a stone balustrade, probably something that had served as a fence at one time, leaving the whole of that calf and half of the thigh bare to the rain as the queen washed it, hands moving over her skin. Her head was tilted back, mouth slightly ajar to the rainwater, smiling in her enjoyment, and washing by touch alone with her eyes closed. Her chemise was soaked through and barely hid anything underneath, though it was enough to be tantalizing, that long red hair so wet it looked dark brown instead, hanging down her back in thick tendrils.

Gwyneth paused, her back stiffening and Alistair was suddenly caught out. She dropped the lye soap, shocked for a moment before she was staring back. There was no move made to cover herself, since she had figured on the chemise for that purpose, even if it didn't leave that much to the imagination, it was better than no covering at all. "Were you _watching_ me? You were!"

"It's not like that!"

"So you weren't just standing there, looking at me?"

Alistair thought about some way he could deny that, or at least make it sound like he wasn't enjoying the show for that short time, but he couldn't think of anything just then. His shoulders dropped, voice lowered as he averted his gaze. It wasn't like it was something he hadn't seen a bit more of before, but that hardly seemed like the thing to say, and it didn't make him feel any less guilty. "I . . . yes, yes I was, but I couldn't help it!"

He thought she'd be angry, but instead Gwyneth almost looked amused, raising one brow at him as she stood there, letting the rain rinse her off before coming inside. As she walked past him, she even laughed, though it was short. "Huh, and here Leliana was always telling me what a _gentleman_ you were. Tsk, tsk, tsk. Naughty naughty."

The mention of _her_ name made him flinch, but the twist of Gwyneth's lips made Alistair feel like he should step outside himself, to clear his head. A sidelong glance that all but grinned '_I caught you_!' and something hidden beneath long lashes that suggested she might not have minded. He had to fight to remember his purpose. "I came out here to tell you . . ."

She was holding up her clothes, hair dripping onto the floor, as she regarded him without turning around. "Yes?"

"That we have to make camp for the night." He finished lamely.

"I knew that already, but thank you for informing me. You might want one too, you know." She smirked at him when she turned about, taking a hold of a long handled brush as she wrung the water out of her curls.

"One what?"

"A quick washing in the rain. It'd do you some good before we have to share a wagon again tonight." She might have been alluding to his personal hygiene, and her desire to not share sleeping arrangements with anyone that didn't meet her own standards, but she purposely kept her voice toneless.

The dimness was doing nothing to obscure those long legs of hers and the rest of her filled out body, and for once, Alistair agreed whole heartedly. "Yes, I think you're right." She stood there, watching him, and he realized she was waiting for him to leave so she could get dressed. "Gwyneth, I need . . . _we_ need, to talk." He'd been putting it off, but it couldn't go on forever.

"Now isn't the best time, Alistair." Her mouth slanted sideways, not quite a smirk, but it easily could become one.

With the threat of poorly timed arousal, he was inclined to concur, and it was a much better idea to get out of there and back to his knights. "No, of course not. Later, though . . . tonight."

She nodded. "Tonight."

As he left her, Alistair wasn't sure if that was a promise, or a threat.

* * *

Building a fire inside required caution, and the knights tested which way the wind came through the arrow frame windows before they let the flames get very high, and even then it would have to be closely watched to keep those resting from breathing in too much smoke. Gwyneth appreciated those efforts as she was crouched inside the covered wagon that she'd sleep in that night.

Her hands finagled with the large blanket, trying to smooth it out. She thought crossly of Alistair, and how he'd let that simpleton into the wagon, where he could infest their bedding with any manner of lice. After that, he'd had to gall to complain, saying how much he'd preferred the bed rolls. _Well, the blankets were all Gwyneth could get at Vigil's Keep, having burned the possibly infested bed rolls, and if he was so particular about it, he shouldn't have let a commoner rest in the same wagon he bedded down in. 'Hmph!'_

There was a whine, and Gwyneth looked over at Noble, the mabari curled on himself in one corner of the wagon. Those big brown eyes were watching her, head cocked to the side.

"You want to lend me some assistance?" She shook her head, amused, when he only moved his eyes back and forth, in a way that made her think of raised brows. "I thought not. Noble, sweetheart, I hate to be the one to tell you this, but you aren't maintaining your image of grand Royal Hound and vicious warrior by sulking in this wagon most of the day."

He only whimpered.

"Well, maybe next time you can at least try to _look_ brave. We both have an image to maintain here."

Noble barked shortly, big eyes thinning out.

"Quite, so, yes, and no, just because it's wet outside doesn't mean you won't need to go hunting in the morning. We have to get fresh meat when we can."

A growl, stubby tail thumping.

"Well, we both know _I_ hate hunting, but I _do_ appreciate your hard work. If you bring back a few very nice hares there might be a big juicy select cut of beef when we get to the Bannorn."

The wagon moved and both the queen and the mabari turned their heads to the open flap as Alistair awkwardly made his way inside, managing to get his long legs curled under him, kneeling on the blankets beside Gwyneth. "You know, that could be considered bribery."

Gwyneth shrugged, hands laid out flat to straighten the bedding. "_You_ say bribery, _I_ say encouragement. It's all a matter of opinion, isn't that right, Noble?"

He barked again, panting and looking to be in complete agreement, if mabari could manage human facial expressions. Noble was better at it than most.

Alistair grumbled. "He's biased, towards you, _and_ food." He earned a growl and had to put up his hands in surrender. "Alright, alright, just remember I'm sleeping in here too, and you can't go hogging all the room for yourself. I was squashed against the wall last night and my back hurt all day!" Noble huffed once at that, and it seemed to be all the agreement the king was going to get.

There wasn't all that much space in there besides, certainly not for Alistair's long muscled frame, and with the edition of his leggy wife, and a large mabari there was even less. He struggled to get comfortable where he was sitting, contemplating closing the flap behind him, but the low fire was letting in light and it was too stuffy in there.

"You could have woken me up." Gwyneth added.

"Would you have moved?"

"Perhaps." She was smiling at him, in that coy secretive way of hers. It straightened out as she finally got the blankets in order, or enough so that she couldn't use them as an excuse to stay clear of conversation. Though Gwyneth didn't fear it as much as she might have before. "You wanted to talk?"

"_Now_?"

"Why not now? You're here, I'm here, Noble's here too but he'll be asleep soon. Seems as good a time as any." She paused. "Unless it was a very _private_ conversation you wanted to have. Your knights won't hear us . . . _talking_, anyway." There was something suggestive in the slow curl of her lips, but it was gone soon after.

"Gwyneth, don't." He cautioned, but he wasn't sure if it was more for _her_ sake or his _own_.

"Don't what?"

"You know what I mean."

"If I did, I wouldn't have asked."

Alistair grabbed her shoulders, wanting to shake the obstinacy out of her, but he let her go quickly, hesitant to make contact with Gwyneth. She had a habit of getting him riled, in one way or another, and he wanted to keep himself collected. "What happened, with Nathaniel Howe . . . it's been eating at me. I have to know, you have to tell me, did you tell Ser Caron to do it, conscript him?"

He could have asked her anything, and he asked her _that_. "I love how you avoid my questions to ask your own." She sighed, shrugging her shoulders, and easing down to sit cross legged. "No, I didn't 'tell' him to do _anything_. We spoke, wherein I had to convince him to relay what you said. He was hesitant to even speak of that, and I'm sure you can well imagine why." Narrowed irises were like sharp points of daggers, aimed right at Alistair's face, but that argument had reached its climax at Vigil's Keep and the heat of it was little more than a steady warmth. "After that I managed to get over my anger at you enough to explain why Nathaniel shouldn't be hung, that he shouldn't be allowed to escape responsibility for his words so easily as the noose would provide."

That much was truth, and if Gwyneth avoided the specifics of her words to the Warden commander, it wasn't without due cause. She was not only putting her own union at jeopardy, but also the hope of salvaging a bond between Gerod and Alistair, and in her mind she knew that doing so was important. To both the country and the future of it. Much could be done with such an alliance, and Gwyneth could only imagine how angry Alistair would be to think that Gerod had lied to him, for _her_ sake. If nothing else, she owed the Warden that much for his loyalty towards her. A lie for a lie, but it ended there, as Gwyneth gave all but that bare fact to her husband, because while some things couldn't be said, other things _had_ to be. Honesty was what Alistair wanted, and she was going to try a new tactic of establishing a stronger tie with him. She was going to give him that which he desired, on her own terms.

"I made my case to him, and he refused it. Ser Caron spoke with great passion of the honor he held for the Wardens, and he made it quite plain the source of his loyalty and pride. Just as he did with you in the courtyard. I was just as surprised as you were that morning, and I won't pretend that I'm unhappy with his decision. That would be a bald faced lie, but his decision was just that, _his own_. Whatever influence you _think_ I have, whatever pull you _imagine _me to posses, Ser Caron's mind is under _his_ control, just as yours is. I don't recall all that I said to him the proceeding evening, but it doesn't matter Alistair. He made the call on his own judgment, and I don't think it was easy for him." The posh lilt of her voice gave a solidity to her words, and Gwyneth found that speaking of matters in an open way seemed to add to that weight. She watched Alistair for a reaction, his eyes pinched together for a brief moment, in an emotion that Gwyneth couldn't quite figure out. She was worried he was about to create tension, and the young queen sought to stop that.

"I know it wasn't easy for _you_ either, and you wouldn't listen to me when we left. I respect that you are becoming more forceful in your manner, but sometimes, it's irritating and I would have you let me give my appreciation _now_, at the very least. Because I _do_ appreciate it, from the both of you. Am I pleased by the outcome? Yes. Can I say that I didn't take some personal vengeful joy from what happened? No, I _did_ enjoy the anger on his face, such that he would've caused me with his erroneous accusations. However, I still think it was the best possible outcome, and no matter my surprise at the turn of events, I am glad for them. I'm sorry that you're not, and I don't think you and I will _ever_ agree, where the Grey Wardens are concerned, but you gave in. Maybe it was against your conscience, I don't know, but you did it, and that means . . ." She put a hand on his forearm, holding him with her gaze so he had to pay attention. "That means a lot to me, and I want to thank you."

Always she was watching him, watching and waiting, a trap that she'd set for him just inside silverite irises. '_Damn her! What the hell am I suppose to say to that_?' He hadn't expected her gratitude to be anything more than rubbing salt in a wound that she'd caused. Thanking him for something that Alistair didn't want to do in the first place, couldn't be anything more than a different version of Gwyneth gloating. Yet, somehow, everything about her seemed sincere, and though he'd been tricked before, something inside his churning guts told him this time was different.

He could've continued to be angry, and Alistair knew he probably should be. Gwyneth was not the kind of woman that you took a risk with, even if you wanted to, and what made him feel more confused, was that he _did_ want to. When he found his tongue, it felt laden with his confusion. "Don't thank me, not for _that_."

"If I shouldn't thank you for taking my feelings into consideration, and acting accordingly, even when it's obvious you would've rather not, then what _should_ I thank you for, Alistair?" She asked honestly. He'd wanted gratitude from her when he'd let her down from her horse, and now he was acting like he _didn't_ want it.

"I don't know, Gwyn! I can't think when you're looking at me, and I need . . . I just need to be out of here." He clambered onto his knees, moving for the open flap, pausing sharply when he felt her hand at his back.

"Are you going to sleep with the rest of the knights, or are you coming back?"

"Do you _want_ me to come back, Gwyn?"

"Yes."

Her answer was one simple word, when she so often used a bevy of them to express herself. But that one word had more impact than sentences upon sentences could hold, and Alistair couldn't get away from the temptation of it fast enough . . . but he knew that he _would_ come back. _Maybe this was what masochism felt like_.


	36. Chapter 36: Commander of the Grey

**Disclaimer:** _"Dragon Age: Origins" and all its expansions and additional content is the property of Bioware and EA Games. Large portions of written content within the game, as well as Dragon's Age: The Stolen Throne, and Dragon's Age: Calling, are the creation of David Gaider. Original scenarios and characters are used under the creative license of the writer, ItalianEmpress1985. No profit is being made and the following story is for entertainment purposes only_

**Words From The Author: **_I don't usually go backward in this story, but in order to cover the Joining I had to go back one day from the previous chapter, though after this installment it'll be forward motion. Except for flashbacks of course._

_Pretty much I think most of you will be unsurprised by the Joining Ritual, though the order and dialogue are not in kind with the game, but I did try to make it a more serious affair than Awakenings would make you believe, and the way the characters react is changed from what you originally saw. Seneschal Varel also isn't present. The expansion game had a nice little bio written up about him that explained why the Grey Warden's would let a non-Warden perform the Joining Ritual, but I'm just not buying that (I think it was done more for game and time convenience), though he does know about it. Sorry 'bout that Bioware. There's a Warden Commander present and HE performs the Joining. With that said, the words in italics are the canon words of the Joining, I didn't create them. Instead of having Gerod actually speak them in the writing, I have them written as more of a memory or floating sense while the Joining is going on, though of course Gerod would be speaking them out loud, I just didn't write his dialogue in such a way. I wanted them to have a more cerebral feel and I guess we'll see if that worked well for you or not, I know 'I' enjoyed it, but that doesn't really mean everyone else will._

_Word of the day: Dogsboy, really old term for servant. More in today with calling someone your 'gopher' Random 'ancient' words like that really float my boat, and I think they help give the story a better dark age -to- renaissance feel, but I figure I better explain them, since they aren't so well known anymore. :p_

_This is the first chapter in which the king and queen aren't physically present, though their presence is felt in other ways. However, I felt Gerod Caron deserved a chapter of his own, and since some of you like him, I'm hoping those that might not can still enjoy this chapter._

_Bon seigneur = Good lord (as an exclamation)_

_**Special Note**__: For those of you that have been missing Morgreth Urthemiel I have a special treat for you from our own Jaffa Snakes, who I have to thank profusely for her continued gifts of art and the time she spent only out of the goodness of her heart. In my profile, listed under extras you will find the links to both a collection of concept sketches of Morgreth and another for a complete, full color work of Gwyneth and Morgreth, exquisitely done. In addition she has a lovely watercolor piece of just Gwyneth on her favorite balcony. Please be sure to check them out, and if you are so willing, to leave comments on her Deviant Art page, she certainly deserves them._

_Thank you for stopping in. Watch out for low flying dragons!_

* * *

_**Chapter Thirty Six:**_

_**Commander of the Grey**_

* * *

June 7'th, 9:31, Dragon Age

**S**he was but one more pin prick of light amongst the king's caravan, her face no more clear than others for the distance between Gerod Caron and Gwyneth Theirin, but the distance meant little. She had turned, and she had looked, that's what mattered. One last long gaze between them before the Warden Commander could bear it no longer and left the battlements, heart beating wildly beneath his ribs. _For her, all of it . . . and it was madness._

Laying awake those nights with only his guilt to keep him company, a constant driving nail into the hard bone of his skull, that he had failed his men, that they depended on him and he'd allowed himself to fall prey to a hurlock's axe when he knew he was better than such a paltry move. In those long, too quiet hours, Gwyneth had stared at him from her portrait. "_You are more than you think_." Those painted eyes said, bright silver in the dimness of his inn room at Jader. "_You are a good man, and when you see me, I will not look upon you with disappointment_." Whispered imagined words before Gerod had ever heard the queen's voice. He'd drank her in, re-reading old letters sent between them, where he tried to glean who she was from the friendly if impersonal correspondences. "_His Majesty and I thank you for your kind regards on our marriage, and the both of us look forward to greeting you. Too long has Ferelden gone without a Warden Commander_." Those words had _not_ been imagined, written in a scrolling script that suggested a delicate hand. "_We could not be more pleased to accept your request for the position, and I personally shall be quite gladdened to see someone take up Vigil's Keep with honor in mind. Long and empty are the days since that fortress has seen such a thing_."

'_I personally _. . .' And after that, they had gotten more so, though not in any degree that anyone should find inappropriate. Gerod was cautious to do the same, even as he felt something long forgotten in him smile at her words, at the hint of kinship they represented as the professional bits of the letters that followed those first few, were strewn with shared pieces of the woman's life. Gwyneth would write some lines about the Couslands, about her regard for nobility such as she was, and how it gave her a great sense of stability to have the new commander be a man of both blue blood and educated heritage. They were subtle, the written touches of the woman's soul, careful not to be bared more than any brief glimpse of the naked shoulder of a woman, teasing in some long hallway, but they were there and before he'd even seen her, Gerod felt himself responding, if only in the silence of his own mind.

_'I will not look upon you with disappointment.' _But she _had_, the previous evening, angry and hurt by his refusal, feeling that he mocked her request in some way. That gaze, so filled with an acceptance of him when he saw her for the first time, and a wondering curiosity, had suddenly become disenchanted. Gerod had lain awake as he had many nights, but last night it was Gwyneth herself that haunted him, her eyes asking why he had let her down, and he couldn't stand it.

So, here they were, the commander having stolen away a man's fate to conscript him against his will. It had been done before in the order, Gerod had seen it firsthand, and he understood the need, just as he understand the secrecy, but this time had felt different, _dirty_ somehow. When the Order of the Grey was founded those ages ago, they had taken only those deemed worthy, the so called 'best of the best.' Anymore it seemed that both those willing and those able but unwilling were permitted to join. Desperate times call for desperate measures, wise men often said. Though Gerod doubted the First Warden would agree with his recruitment of a prisoner who would rather be hanged and an apostate mage who was recruited to save his hide from templars. Considering, however, Gerod's opinion of that man, such a thing was more a problematic issue than a moral one. His conscience weighed on him far less to anger a hierarchy from Weisshaupt that would rather rest on their laurels, and it weighed upon him far _more_ that he was taking the wrong path to building up the new order of Ferelden that had been so decimated, but pessimism wouldn't serve him well.

More than that, Gerod had earned the king's ire, a man that he respected, even as he fought not to think inappropriately about the man's wife. King Alistair was deserving of at least that much . . . but the queen . . . she wasn't disappointed anymore. She'd gone along with his well meaning lie, even if she was surprised, and the young woman had certainly looked it. _Was it worth it?_ Gerod had lost his noble standing to fight over a woman he didn't love, and the Wardens had given him something much greater to believe in than his own ego, would he truly sully that for _another_ woman? He already had his answer as he made for the great hall of Vigil's Keep.

Long limbs pressed back into the wall, the Orlesian's face covered with his hands as he forced his breath to still and his mind to calm. '_This isn't me, I'm not this man that is driven by obsession with a woman, _any_ woman. You need to find control and be the Warden Commander your recruits require.'_ Gerod told himself, over and over, until he began to find his way back to the sane, strong willed Warden that Commander Le Mercier had seen in him.

* * *

It was dark inside the hall, large fire bowls casting off orange light in the dim space. The only windows were slits in the tapered ceiling far above their heads. _How these Fereldans could stand to make such dreary architecture, he would never know. _He felt like he was inside a great yawning cave, the dampness on the walls near the same. It was nothing like the chiefly white marble masonry of Ser Caron's family manor in St. Talon, but trying to compare the two was a lesson in futility and led him only to melancholia and the childish feeling that some would call homesickness. He had his lot in life, this was it, and that was all. There was nothing to gain in wishing for things to have changed, and there was purpose and honor in being a Grey Warden, and more so in being a Warden _Commander_. It was to those honorable titles that Gerod forced himself into a better mood.

The Crown had sent him a vial of archdemon blood, and Commander Caron had to salute the king for being quick minded enough to save some of it. Gerod had never seen an archdemon up close, or nary even from afar, but he was certain a man had to have a strong stomach to collect the blood of a dead one. All that wretched flesh up close would surely be enough to make a lesser man gag, and even if His Majesty wasn't happy with the new commander, Gerod still respected him in turn. More so for the fact that it saved him having to perform the arduous rite to enchant the blood of some hurlock's corpse. Since Anders was the only mage at Vigil's Keep, that would have taken some slick maneuvering to explain the rite without giving away the details of the Joining Ritual.

For a rogue mage on the run, Anders seemed to retain some stock in orders, though Gerod was fair certain that might have been only because they did not come from the lips of templar hounds on the hunt. He'd collected Ser Mhairi and Master Oghren, true to the direction the Warden commander had given him, but it was clear that the blonde apostate would be no one's dogsboy. The mage looked up, flicking back a strand of scraggly hair that had come loose from its tie to irritate his face. A grin that could be described as nothing short of perverse, had been directed towards the blushing and put off Ser Mhairi, but his look sobered as he saw the commander. Even without knowing what becoming a Grey Warden truly entailed, Anders appeared to be under the humbling effects of undergoing a ritual that he had an inkling wouldn't be fun and games.

"So . . . _commander_." The title came off kilter to lips that so very rarely granted anyone deference. "You've had us standing in here awhile, and our unconscious 'friend' over there might be coming to pretty soon." A hand waved in the bound Nathaniel Howe's direction. "Any chance we could get the _festivities_ going before I reach my next birthday?"

"Have some respect!" Ser Mhairi scolded, folding long arms across her chest, the sound of rustling fabric and chainmail lending a backdrop to the scowl she sent her fellow recruit. Dark blue eyes quirked at her next thought. "How old _are_ you anyway, ser mage? I can't really tell."

"How old do you _want_ me to be, sweetheart?" He smiled, revealing a set of mostly straight teeth, and winked as the object of his flirtations only glared at him.

"Master Anders, this is a serious matter you are all undertaking . . . where is Master Oghren?" Gerod turned about, his speech interrupted by a missing recruit.

Anders nodded his head to the left. "Over there by the ale casks the guards brought in. He passed out drunk about an hour ago I think. At least he finally stopped snoring."

"He's _drunk_? _Bon seigneur_, and none of you thought to wake him up? This is absurd!" Gerod waved his hands about in agitation, unaware of Mhairi trying to hold back a giggle at how utterly Orlesian a gesture it was. "One of you go rouse him please, we've waited long enough."

The only woman amongst them was the first to volunteer, offering her apology that she did not do so earlier, and Gerod felt that her recommendation from the Crown was well made. He hoped she would make it through, because a dutiful Grey Warden would be of great service in the early days of rebuilding the order. His other three recruits might not prove themselves so worthy, but he'd take what he could get. A commander without any soldiers was a poor one indeed.

* * *

Oghren weaved on booted feet, his thick beard swaying in time as if the dwarf was on the bow of some great ship set upon the waves of an uneasy sea. Nathaniel Howe glared from over his gag, tied up to one of the many plain columns in the great hall, eyes spewing a silent hatred and cold resignation. Anders moved from one foot to other with far more purpose than the drunk dwarf beside him, mages fingers twitching at the lack of activity, being used to a near constant state of motion that seemed to belong to refugees. Ser Mhairi couldn't decide if she wanted to smile or present a professional face, stiff and apathetic, but her excitement was bleeding out in those dark blue eyes and her lips tugged in a few snuck sideways grins.

Above them all, standing on the short dais, Gerod Caron looked at his mixed bag of four and prayed to the Maker that all of them would get through the ritual. Only the damp silence of the hall answered him, the rest of that dark space emptied of guards, the seneschal and any others that might witness this. It was a private ritual and would remain so. Tradition was important to the new Warden Commander and he maintained it, even if he was the only Warden in Amaranthine . . . though that was soon to change, hopefully.

It wasn't the same atmosphere that presided over his own Joining, but that heavy feeling of imminent danger yet hovered in the air between himself and his mismatched collection of recruits. Gerod hadn't intended on performing the ritual for a few more days, but with Nathaniel Howe having been conscripted he'd reconsidered, and though he didn't like the rushed feeling, perhaps it was better to get it over with. It was not, however, anything he undertook lightly. He hadn't told the recruits the potential price for undergoing the Joining, he wouldn't betray the secrecy of the order and the security of the ritual itself, but the queen was right about _something_. It was permanent and changed a person forever, and so it was with a bowed head and great levity that the Orlesian commander began.

The large fire bowls that dominated the room created a pallid sweat on his brow, the humidity of the room pressing on him as his eyes were closed, heavily accented voice solemn and low. His hands held the chalice with reverence, the sense of change hovering about him as thick ozone before a lightning storm, and the silence seemed to swallow all present with that impression.

As the old words flowed from his learned tongue, Gerod gave the chalice to each in turn. Pulling down Nathaniel's gag, he waited to see if he'd have to make good on his threat to pour the blood down his throat, or if the once noble lord would acquiesce. Gerod could barely hide his surprise when the bound man only nodded. The wayward noble turned vagabond wouldn't compound his lost honor with his actions anymore than he deemed necessary it seemed, and Nathaniel gave no voiced contempt, only a desire to have it over with written in dimmed irises.

_'Since the first, these words have been spoken at the ceremony . . .'_

Gerod held the chalice to Nathaniel's parched lips, knowing there was no refreshment to be found in that particular drink. Three sets of eyes watched the pair, anxious in all ways for their own turn, and pressed with their own morbid curiosity. Nathaniel tilted his head back, closing his eyelids as his mouth touched the metal rim and he swallowed the blood, pausing at the horrid taste, but to his credit he didn't choke on it. Gerod expected the white eyes, but the others did not as they made noises of surprise and someone the sound of revulsion. Nathaniel's limbs went taut where they were yet bound to the column, neck gone equally columnar as he began to shake before slumping back against the support at his back, unconscious but alive.

Anders stumbled over his words of surprise, even as his posture remained rigid, legs kept stiff by his shock.

Gerod quieted the mage with a gaze so sharp and unyielding that even an apostate wouldn't be likely to challenge it. A pang of guilt hit him, but he reminded himself that there was a reason the chance of fatality was kept secret, and since Nathaniel had survived it yet remained so. The words of the Joining suggested only fatality in the line of duty, to those that were unknowing. He swallowed that guilt and handed the chalice to the wary mage standing before him.

Anders eyed the dark, foul smelling ichor within, wincing as he brought the chalice to his lips.

_'Join us, brothers and sisters. Join us in the shadows where we stand vigilant.'_

He thought of that damned Kinloch Hold, a spike of a tower in the middle of a cold and unfeeling lake. The dark waters there lapped against the stones in his memory, as the dark blood of an archdemon ran down his throat. It burned like his first time setting mage-fire without knowing how to protect himself from it and it nearly brought him to his knees right there. Anders thought it might kill him, but he'd _rather _die than go back to the Circle, and it was that silent oath that he kept as he felt the blood working through his innards. Such a sharp pain as he'd never known made him shriek with it before his legs _did_ give out and the ground came up to meet him in a swift and sudden abyss of unconsciousness.

Gerod smiled. He had his healer. The commander turned to Oghren who was anxiously shifting his weight on the balls of steel booted feet.

Oghren reached for the chalice, almost offended that it seemed so small. He'd had ale mugs twice the size and downed them like a paragon of drinking, and the dwarf seemed to think he'd heard a song about that in Tapster's Tavern at one time.

_'Join us as we carry the duty that can not be forsworn.'_

He looked over at the unconscious man on the floor next to him, snorting something about a 'pansy in a skirt' before downing the blood. A twitch and a belch, and at first it seemed that was the only reaction he'd have, surprising the remaining Ser Mhairi and their commander in turn, but then his body fell into the same convulsions that had taken Nathaniel and he collapsed onto the ground like a sack of potatoes.

The two humans looked to each other, and Mhairi would've bowed at the honor, but Gerod held out a hand, shaking his head. There was no fealty here, save to the blood that sealed one's fate.

Her questioning gaze as it fell on the dwarf was met with a reassuring smile. Three recruits there had been, three Wardens there now would be, and at last the Joining had come to the young knight. In that moment she seemed nervous, as unsure fingers clasped the offered chalice, looking at the dark liquid within as if Mhairi might glean some vision of her future from it.

There were not many female Grey Wardens, but the former Knight of Denerim would gladly join that minority, and her sudden nerves did little to remove the feeling of privilege that pulsed in her veins.

_'And should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten.'_

She thought of her honor, of the confidence King Alistair had in her, of the encouragement she'd received from Queen Gwyneth. Mhairi admired them both, and it bolstered her resolve as she smiled into the chalice when it touched her lips. The horridly tangy and bitter taste burned all the way down her throat, and she winced, but kept drinking until the last little bit of it was gone.

Mhairi waited, her heartbeat seeming to slow as the blood did its work, and at first she felt nothing, but then a sharp stabbing pain rooted itself firmly in her skull and she shrieked, going down to her knees. The chalice fell from her hands to clatter on the hard floor, what little blood there was left, dripping out onto the stone. She screamed out her pain, lost to the indignity of her tears as the young woman curled in on herself as the pain spread out and attacked her body. Mhairi was barely aware of the commander having fallen to his knees to help her, apologizing and saying words she couldn't understand in her delirium.

Hands went to that pale throat, clutching at it as the agony stole her breath away and made her choke. She gasped, fingers moving to Ser Caron as she held onto his tunic as if it could save her, crying as the commander tried to soothe her. _'Something is wrong! This isn't suppose to happen!' _Even as Mhairi thought it, she felt her life ebbing away from her, the darkness closing in until Gerod Caron's stricken face was the last thing she saw, before the blackness swallowed him and all was emptiness.

The quiet in the great hall was nearly absolute, but for the crackling of the fire bowls, and Gerod's own grieving. "I am sorry, my dear girl. More sorry than you can known, you would've made a fine Warden." He collected the chalice, setting it on the edge of the dais behind him before he was kneeling next to Mhairi's body, stroking a finger along the woman's cooling cheek as if he was a father tucking a daughter in for bed. He closed her unseeing eyes in respect, before falling back on his heels to wipe a palm across his face.

Three Wardens and one dead recruit. To sum up the Joining in such a way felt cold and detached, and Gerod knew that as Commander of the Ferelden Grey, he shouldn't be so emotional, but he couldn't keep himself from caring anymore than he could keep his heart from beating. Recruits would _always_ have a chance of losing their lives, and Gerod would _always_ care.

_'And that one day we shall join you.'_

* * *

It would be yet some time before the new Wardens awoke, and Gerod had sent them to seperate rooms, with orders given to the soldiers to fetch him _immediately_ when they roused. The archdemon's blood had made the effect more potent than had enchanted hurlock blood or the like been used as a replacement. It was expected that it'd take longer for them to come out of it.

There would be questions, and undoubtedly the most uncomfortable would be why there were only _three_ of them. Though Gerod fancied Nathaniel Howe would have more concerns than just that, _his_ room locked to prevent his escape and an increased watch kept on him. It couldn't continue that way, the willfull title-less noble would have to understand what he was, and the bounds of honor that kept him. Already a headache was bulding behind the commander's eyes at the thought of that conversation, and the many more he suspected would be necessary.

He stood out in the courtyard, a large fire still going as the cleanup effort for Vigil's Keep continued on, so much darkspawn filth yet to remove. The firelight caught in his blue irises as the tall Orlesian seemed more like a sentinal than a man, for all his movement, watching the ululating flames with a face as apathetic as stone, even if what he was _really_ feeling was far from apathy. A curled parchment was in his hand, its content hidden from any passersby.

A letter would have to be sent to the king and queen at Rainesfere, and hopefully Seneschal Varel was well versed enough about his position and the country to know the quickest way to get a correspondence to the Bannorn. Gerod wasn't sure what the reception of such a letter would be. King Alistair had not been very thrilled at their last meeting, and while the queen was happier, the fact of Nathaniel Howe's survival and Ser Mhairi's death were both matters of which he couldn't guess at the woman's reaction.

The queen had seemed sincere in her wish to give Nathaniel the same chance she'd had, such as it was, even if taking away his choice for anything else was a clear punishment. There hadn't been an open desire to see the man dead, but Gerod didn't think it would hurt the royal consort's feelings, with her obvious dislike of the man. Neither did he know how Her Majesty would feel about the passing of a young woman who she had seemed to favor when they met again in the courtyard the evening past.

It was not a letter he looked forward to writing, and for more reasons than just those that sat at the forefront of his mind. As if the fire could cleanse him as well, Gerod stepped closer, parchment in hand.

He tilted his head to look back at the main keep behind him, where the first of his new Wardens were waiting in a sleep brought on by their Joining. Where his future waited. Too long had he allowed himself to be drawn into matters that were not Warden concerns, matters of which could complicate Gerod's life in ways that would take away from his duties . . . and duty was everything of which a man could take pride in when he breathed his last. Duty had saved him from himself, and he owed the Grey Wardens of Montsimmard everything, and he owed Ferelden the best commander they could get to save them from the darkspawn that remained. Tomorrow Mhairi's body would burn on a funeral pyre and the future of the Ferelden Grey would begin. There was no room in his mind or his heart for anything else, certainly no complications.

The parchment was unfurled one last time, Gwyneth's painted eyes looking up at him as if questioning this new decision. Orange firelight lit the planes of that face that had so haunted the Warden commander, and he could have no more of it.

_'You make me wish things were different, Gwyneth de'Highever, I cannot wish for such things.'_

He closed his eyes and tossed the portrait into the fire, watching the flames burn away the queen's facade and turning it into ash. When Gerod opened them again, there was nothing left of the once prized image and he turned his back to the flames, heading towards the keep and the duties of the Commander of the Grey that awaited him.


	37. Chapter 37: Well Laid Plans

**Disclaimer:** _"Dragon Age: Origins" and all its expansions and additional content is the property of Bioware and EA Games. Large portions of written content within the game, as well as Dragon's Age: The Stolen Throne, and Dragon's Age: Calling, are the creation of David Gaider. Original scenarios and characters are used under the creative license of the writer, ItalianEmpress1985. No profit is being made and the following story is for entertainment purposes only_

**Words From The Author: **_In case anyone questions it . . . typically Morgreth/Urthemiel is just called 'him' or 'he' without capitalizing it, however when it IS capitalized (Him, He, His) as you will see in this chapter, it's because the character through whom we are reading the perspective, has recognized Urthemiel as a god._

_Ancient Tevene is written as Latin. So Latin-English translations courtesy of Ancient Translator Rom. It's hard to know if the translations are a hundred percent accurate since the language is a dead one, but it gets the effect across I think._

_Adveho, valde unus. Compello vestri vernula. = Come, great one. Speak to your servant._

_Ut audivi te vocant, ita nunc voco te. = So as I have heard you summon me, so now do I summon thee._

_In game canon, the whole thing going on between Cailan and Celene (Empress of Orlais) is more hinted at, than made concrete in any way. Though I'm told that David Gaider did say that Loghain's paranoia on the subject wasn't without reason. That said, I think in the game Eamon may have been a bit more supportive of it, maybe because 'he' had married an Orlesian, but in THIS story, Eamon had another bride in mind for Cailan, and Cailan's thoughts on the matter might not be what you expected either. Just when you thought all that would be left of Cailan in this story was his amulet. :p So differences between game canon and Fate and Forbearance canon? Yes, not absurdly so, but yes._

_Also, there's a phrase repetition between two different sections, and it's on purpose, I liked tying them together like that, so no 'oops' on my part . . . well, at least not THAT time. :p In addition 'I' am not saying that being unmarried at the age of twenty-one makes a person an old hag, if that were the case, I've been on the shelf past my expiration for quite some time. Rather it is the type of idea that flourished in the Rennaisance, as young ladies got older, the rush to have them married off before their twenty-first year was pretty prevalent. Just want to make sure I don't offend._

_Thank you for stopping in. Watch out for low flying dragons!_

* * *

_**Chapter Thirty Seven:**_

_**Well Laid Plans**_

* * *

**S**he cut her palms, barely wincing at the familiar pain anymore, and smeared them across the glass, taking a finger to trace patterns in it across the mirror's surface. The only interruption, when she turned her head at every little sound to make sure she hadn't been followed. Hidden away in a forgotten storage room of the royal palace, the location wouldn't be easy for anyone to stumble upon, but the mage couldn't risk being caught. Her master would be sorely upset and His wrath was a terrible thing to endure.

When her spell work reached its conclusion, the mage braced herself for the painful experience of hearing her dark lord talking inside her head, something that she doubted any mortal could become accustomed to. The sharpness of His words was matched only by the barely restrained power behind them. Never would she forget what He had done down in the dungeons of the palace, when she had refused to kill the late Queen Anora. Possession from a demon was bad enough, possession from a _deity_ was quite another level of suffering. _His_ voice, _His_ words, and _her_ body had done the deed, and the piercing pain inside her skull had taken a week to dull away into nothing. She almost thought she was going to be killed, the amount of energy He used for it nearly stealing away her life.

At first she questioned whether Urthemiel was as He claimed, but months upon months of being at the old god's beck and call, Neria Surana no longer doubted it. The heady power she felt at conversing with a god had lessened as her fear of Him grew. Her gratitude after her near capture by the templars, had become a duty instead, bound by the threat of His punishment is she failed Him.

_'Oh Neria, you silly elf, what have you gotten yourself into this time?'_ Her friend, Jowan's voice was an echo in her mind, because she would never hear it again.

Eyes clenched shut at the threat of her tears, knowing Lord Urthemiel wouldn't appreciate them. He required His supplicants to be strong of will, and He accepted no weakness but what He perceived to already be the inborn weakness of mortality. _His supplicant _. . . Neria could no longer deny that was what she was to Him, even if He called her His beloved servant, or His dear child, to Him she was a tool, but she couldn't escape from Him. Her bravado, little as she felt it to be, had let her make the attempt a few times, but they had been utter failures. His punishment still left scars on her that she could feel but no one could see, and Neria hadn't dared to try again.

"Adveho, valde unus. Compello vestri vernula." The young elf chanted, the spell work of the ancient imperium magic seeming to bath her tongue with a power that was beyond the simplicity of _Circle_ magic. Each word in itself a cry unto the forces that provided the incantation. Since Neria had been introduced to the complexities of the arch-magi of the old world, she could compare nothing else to the feelings that coursed through her veins as the words left her lips.

"Ut audivi te vocant, ita nunc voco te." She hissed out, low and caressing as if it was the vocal equivalent of worshiping on one's knees. Hands pressed against the mirror, her blood cooling there as familiar grey and red wisps swirled in the glass like a whirlpool, the surface seeming to ripple. Neria bent her head and bowed as she felt the presence of the old god. "Lord Urthemiel. I heard you calling to me as I slept, and I wish only to serve you." In the common tongue, her petition of servitude seemed less sincere somehow, and she winced, anticipating that her master might notice such a thing.

"Do you, my sweet child? I think you lie to me, I think you wish to escape from our agreement." The disembodied voice was no less frightening for the lack of physical form to represent it, the god's essence speaking from the vortex within the glass. "It pains me to think of your disloyalty, after all I did for you. I _saved_ you from the templars that hunted you, I _saved_ you from the demons that you first sought for aid. There in the Fade of Dreams I found you, and gave you more power than years of paltry instruction at your prison of a mage tower _ever_ could. Yet, you do not wish to help me in return?" His tone was that of an unhappy parent, but behind the censure was a malicious bite that spoke of things far worse than mere disapproval.

"No! I _do_! I _do_ wish to serve you!" Panicked, Neria raised almond shaped eyes to the mirror, her urgent whispers pressing towards it.

"Is that why you have sought escape from me, despite the stupidity of it? Is that why I had to take the late Queen of Ferelden's disposal in hand myself? You have disappointed me before, sweet one. If you truly wish to serve me, you must prove your worth, and that's more than you have done so far." He sent his intentions towards her, wishing He had chosen a servant of stronger will to do as they were asked.

"I . . . I do not know how I have disappointed you again, my lord. I did all that you said, the wine . . ." She shrieked as his anger pounded inside her skull, making the mage curl up on the floor.

"The wine _ran out_, idiot mortal!" The old god roared His anger like a great dragon, His voice sounding only in His servant's mind, but there it was louder than the ending of the world.

"I'm sorry . . . I'm sorry!" Neria wailed, fingers curled into fists and pressed to her agonized temples. "It hurts! Please . . ." She gasped in pain, and when He finally released His hold on her, she slumped to the floor, barely daring to raise her tear stained face. "The queen drinks the wine every night, and I made sure there were cases and cases of it on the supply wagon, I did, you _must_ believe me!"

"Must I? Yes, I suppose I do, as I also believe you were not thinking. Because she drank all she had, and now I have no access at all. How do I influence her mind if I cannot get to her thoughts? Tell me that, little Neria." He knew there would be no answer, as she struggled to come up with one, and he didn't particularly want her to question why he didn't merely possess her again and do it himself. "Don't trouble yourself, mortal, I know it taxes you to try and use that brain inside your skull, but that's why I am here, to help you succeed. You must enchant more than just the wine, that way you insure that she will be affected. Her cosmetics, her bath salts, her _food, _use your imagination, since I know you have one. Such a fine one in fact, such _potential,_ my precious elf."

"But . . . But I don't have the energy for . . ."

"I will _give_ you the energy, if and only if, you swear upon your _life_ not to defy me again."

Neria bowed her head, shifting to find her feet as she rose up from the floor. "I swear, Lord Urthemiel, I _swear_."

"Good girl. Perhaps this riposte will relax her and make her think I will come to her no more, which may provide an unforeseen new tactic, and so I am willing to forgive your mistake . . . _this_ time. I shall not be so magnanimous in the future." He crooned at her, soothing the cuts in her mind that He'd caused in His anger. "Now, sweet one, put your hands up to the glass and I will teach you all that you must learn to better serve me. There shall be no more mishaps."

* * *

September 4'th, 9:30, Dragon Age

_"I've been getting reports on darkspawn, mostly from scouts in the wilds and some few Chasind that have gone to the southland villages for trade. Anora thinks I am putting too much stock in peasant rumors, which could almost be funny, considering her bloodline." Cailan snorted in dark humor, recent and thick fighting with his queen putting them at odds, and that time he wasn't sure they could recover, or if he even wanted to anymore. The threat of darkspawn had a least given him another focus._

_Eamon sat with him on a thin balcony overlooking the courtyard of Rainesfere, his brother Teagan's holding, enjoying a late lunch with his nephew. Their visit there had been to hold a meeting with the local bannorn and see where all of them stood if the rumors of darkspawn proved more than that. He looked out past the railing, more for distraction while he thought, than to take in the scenery of the moorlands, though in the early fall, the tress were full of lovely colors._

_He raised a mug of honeyed mead to his lips, careful not to drip any on his iron grey beard. "That old Warden, associate of your father's . . ."_

_"Duncan?"_

_"Yes, when is he set to arrive?"_

_"Sometime next week, by his last letter." Cailan hummed, disinterested as his mind wandered to thoughts of actually fighting again, and against darkspawn no less. The last scrap he'd been in had pitted him against paltry bandits, and even then his honor guard had kept their king out of the fray. Cailan itched for a good battle, though he was concerned about not knowing that much about the enemy. _'Son, it's never wise to go up against a dragon without knowing the size.' _His father had told him once, during a retelling of Maric's own adventures. The advice seemed appropriate for the times._

_"Hmm, I bet Loghain won't like that." Eamon smirked into his mug, imagining the scowl on the veteran's face. Though he scowled so often, that wasn't a difficult image to conjure._

_"He doesn't like _much_. I don't know what my father ever saw in him, all he does is gripe at me. About his daughter, about the country and the way it should be run. I say, piss on Loghain, _he's _not the king, _I_ am." Cailan had his own scowl as he picked at his lunch, pushing some cherry tomatoes to the side of his plate. "Though, he is a very good strategist. There's no denying that. I'll get the old man to come around, I always do anyway. He'll grumble and glower, but he'll agree in the end."_

_All that Eamon had to say to that was a short nod and a brief 'hmm', before he'd moved on. "What does the empress say, should the need arise?"_

_"Celene says she would be more than willing to send us some of her chevaliers, if I were to ask it of her."_

_"_Celene_ is it?" That sharp Guerrein mind caught on to Cailan's tone quickly. "You need to be cautious boy, the wounds of this country are not yet healed and when it comes to Orlais, we must always walk carefully."_

_"I'm not a _boy_, I am a _man_ whose twenty fifth birthday is in two days, and secondly, those are strong words coming from someone who _married_ an Orlesian." Cailan snorted, setting his lunch aside completely. "I know where you are going with this, and I can assure you that I know what I'm doing."_

_"Do you now? Let us hope so, for _all_ our sakes. You are still a young man, despite what you may think to the contrary, and young men can make mistakes. Certainly since you've made the error of thinking your Aunt Isolde and I compare in any way to a dalliance between the King of Ferelden and the Empress of Orlais." The elder man huffed, in a low secretive voice, not without his own bluster, as he rose from his chair to stand and look past the railing at an approaching caravan. "Cailan, I love you, as both my nephew and my king, I want only what is best for you and Ferelden. _ _In _all_ things, and all I'm saying is that should you decide that you want another on the throne beside you, it would be better to look to more _local_ prospects than Orlais."_

_"We aren't having this conversation again, Uncle, we really aren't!" Cailan threw his napkin down on to the small table before standing beside the shorter man. "Anora knows how to manage her duties, she's helped me rule this country since I was crowned. I don't intend on robbing her of the ability to perform her many talents." What separated the truth from the lies in that statement, was kept hidden behind the sharp tang of Cailan's defensive tone._

_"Which _don't_ seem to include providing Ferelden with an heir."_

_"_Uncle_ . . ." Cailan cautioned, growling under his breath, preparing for another heated argument with Eamon on the same topic they'd already discussed at least a dozen times before then._

_Eamon threw his palms in the air, shaking his head, as blue-grey eyes narrowed on the wagons and carriages making their way from the road to the courtyard below them. "Fine, fine, and besides it looks as if Teyrn Cousland has arrived, and we ought to go down and greet them."_

_"_Them_?" The king blinked, brushing a long blonde lock of hair out of the way. He knew Bryce was coming, he'd asked for the northern teyrn's support at the meeting with the bannorn, but he'd no idea the man was going to bring his family._

_"Yes, he's brought Teyrna Eleanor and the Lady Gwyneth with him, Lord Fergus is managing Castle Cousland." _

_As the Arl of Redcliffe trailed off, leaving the balcony, Cailan stayed to watch the traveling party collect itself. '_Gwyneth_.' He smiled, running a hand over his hair to make sure it was in order, before he followed his uncle downstairs._

_Down below he made the rounds, greeting all as he should. Cailan was cautious not to look at Gwyneth too closely, planting a brief kiss to the top of her offered hand, with the girl's father looking on all hawk eyed. There had been rumors about the two of them, and Teyrn Cousland had been none too pleased about anything sullying his daughter's honor or virtue, not that the king could blame the man. If he had a daughter, he'd imagine he'd be much the same._

_And there it was, he had no children, no heirs of his blood. Eamon was right in that, and the thought was souring. It was only his insistence that his mistresses take herbs to prevent conception that kept him from siring bastards, but were times he'd been desperate enough to consider it. Then Gwyneth snuck him a smile when no one was looking, long cinnamon ringlets the same color as some of the autumn leaves in the maple trees, and such cares were set aside. _

_He sought her out when he had a free moment, cautious that no one would think anything untoward about his motivations. _

_She was out in the simple kitchen garden with her mother, the two women walking arm in arm and inspecting the herbs that were growing. _

_Teyrna Eleanor sniffed one of them and made a noise akin to retching. "Oh, dear me, that's positively pungent! Gwyneth, do you know what these are?"_

_"Chives, I think."_

_"Quite so, let us be certain we don't grow our own anywhere near my strawberries, I shouldn't like the taste to blend._ _They _are_ good in a soup, when you have your own household, be sure to have the servants cook some for your husband, won't you?"_

_"_Strawberry_ soup? I'm not so certain of _that_." Gwyneth smirked as her mother batted her arm._

_"_Herb_ soup with _chives_. You know what I mean, why do you tease me so? You are as bad as your father." Eleanor chided but didn't seem half serious about it._

_"Maybe I am, and maybe I'm not, but if I might be excused, I want to make sure they've secured a good spot for Noble to sleep. I have half a suspicion they will have lumped him with the hunting hounds, and you know him, he's _quite_ particular." Which more likely meant it was his mistress that was particular. Gwyneth nodded as her mother excused her with a wave of her hands, leaving the open garden for one of the covered walkways that went around three sides of it._

_She almost screamed when an arm snaked out and pulled her into an alcove. Sharp eyes glared up at her king over the palm he had pressed across her mouth._

_"Did I scare you, Gwyn?" Cailan grinned, dropping his voice to a whisper, even as Gwyneth did the same, her voice hissing when he removed his palm._

_"You _know _you did, you nearly frightened the life out of me!" She turned her head, the dark blue ribbon holding her loose hair back, tickling her neck as the young lady checked around the corner for anyone that might see them. "We aren't suppose to be alone like this anymore, my parents gave me quite the tongue lashing about inappropriate behavior, and I don't imagine your _wife_ would care too well for similar rumors about _you_."_ _ She huffed, arms folded and pressed against her sternum, looking every bit the noblewoman with the posture._

_"You make it sound as if we are having an illicit affair, and more's the pity that we aren't." Cailan sighed for dramatic effect, swallowing his laugh when it earned him a slap to the shoulder. "Alright, perhaps that was in poor taste."_

_"Perhaps?"_

_"Fine, it _was_ in poor taste and I apologize." He sobered, watching her nod her acceptance. "But really, all we are doing is talking as friends, and all this sneaking about it wearing on my nerves. I didn't even know you were going to _be_ here, Gwyn. Why didn't you tell me in your last letter?"_

_"Because, _I _am being cautious. We ought to have been more careful before, and then maybe the gossip hounds wouldn't have made this more than it is. I have to be mindful of what I say in my letters. I'm not one of your serving girl doxies, I'm the Lady of Highever, I have a high reputation to maintain, if I want to make a successful match."_

_He made no effort to refute the fact that he had doxies, it would've been useless when she knew the truth of it, and didn't judge him harshly for his affairs. "I am aware of that you know, it's the only reason I've tolerated all this rubbish for so long. There is very little I would not do for you, my pretty, witty Gwyn." He smiled, bright blue eyes seeming to glow with his affection, even in that dim alcove. One dark red ringlet was caught between his finger and thumb as he lightly tugged at it, grinning when she playfully batted his hand away._

_"Hmm." Was her only response, but she was smiling._

_"There we are, that's what I like to see. No more scowling." Cailan teased, before his thoughts caught up with him. "So what's this about a match? And your mother was talking of cooking chive soup for your _husband_."_

_Gwyneth shrugged, not surprised that he'd been listening, likely waiting to get her alone so they could speak. "Just the usual bits of talk, really. Though, my parents seem to have someone in mind, despite the fact that they have said nothing to me, I've picked up on it. It makes me nervous, they've always discussed my engagements with me so that I could participate in charming my intended. This silence on the matter makes me think they either do not trust in my ability to present myself as a highly suitable bride, which I know is a load of nonsense, or that the perspective groom would not be to my liking. In all honesty, I do look forward to being married,, and they should know that."_

_"You _do_?" Cailan found the thought of Gwyneth married, displeased him greatly, and he tried to keep the feelings of envy out of his voice. That some lesser noble would have the fine beauty on his arm when he didn't half deserve her, rankled like a festering sore._

_Oblivious to his thoughts, the young lady carried on. "Indeed, lest I turn twenty-one and I am still unmarried, then to be thought of as an old hag."_

_"You could _never_ be a _hag_, Gwyneth." He cleared his throat, pressing back into the cool curved stone behind him, when two servants walked past. "Besides, I think you _will_ be married before your next birthday."_

_"Know something I don't, do you?"_

_"That's for _me_ to know, and _you_ to find out." Cailan grinned at her, bowing in the small place with as much flourish as he could manage. "Speaking of birthdays, are you going to be attending _mine_? Being that we are all secretive now."_

_"We are to travel with your own party back to Denerim, yes, and I have your present. I think you'll like it." Someone was chattering from the other end of the open hallway and Gwyneth stiffened, relaxing only when the noise had passed. "Finding the opportunity to give it to you shall be a chore, but I am very resourceful."_

_"I have no doubt. So what is it?"_

_A catlike smile pulled up one corner of Gwyneth's thin lips, turning Cailan's words back on him. "That's for _me_ to know, and _you_ to find out."_

_"Oh-ho! _That's_ how it's going to be then." The minutes were ticking by too quickly for his liking, but he knew he had to prepare for his meeting with the banns. "Much as I would rather spend the rest of the afternoon with you, I'm afraid I have some politics to drown myself in. Are you going to be at dinner?"_

_"Of course, Bann Teagan always has a good feast ready whenever he's been host. Speaking of banns, go speak to our head man at the caravan, he has something for you. A political map that will be of much use during your meeting, I suspect. The banns are impossibly stubborn and not easily swayed one way or another, unless one has leverage to use against them." She smoothed out an imagined wrinkle in the rich blue velvet of her gown. "A comprehensive list of the liaisons, known bastard children, old ties, current alliances and even some food preferences of the banns collected here. I'm more than certain it's better than anything _Anora_ may have given you, she hasn't the insight of the Couslands." It was the calmest of insults Gwyneth had flung at the other woman in quite some time, and she was secure in knowing that Cailan wouldn't scold her over it._

_"If your father made it for me, why didn't he say anything in the courtyard? He had more than enough time to give it to me in private, had he wished to pull me aside." Cailan quirked one trimmed blonde brow._

_Gwyneth's conceit was showing at the edges, in the egotistical smile on her face, making her look almost predatory. "Because my _father_ didn't make the map . . . _I_ did." She bowed cutely, still smirking and full of pride, as she took in the surprise on Cailan's face. "Now, I have to take my leave, and you should as well. I shall see you at dinner . . . and I'll try to sneak in another moment with you if I can."_

_Cailan nabbed her hand as she made to get away, kissing the top of it and winking roguishly. "Until then, dear lady." As she tossed him a long look over her shoulder, leaving the alcove, his lips were drawn in hearty enjoyment of Gwyneth's continued surprises. No matter how long, or well, he knew the girl, there was never any way that he could determine everything inside her sharp mind. His pretty, _witty_ Gwyn, indeed._

_As the King of Ferelden made to find the Cousland's head man for Gwyneth's promised map, he thought on his Uncle Eamon's advice on setting Anora aside. The notion was always in the back of his mind lately, festering there, but Cailan was beginning to come around, despite his guilt over the matter. _

_For over a year he'd entertained a new alliance with Orlais, but it had only been in the last six months that it had gone on to a more personal joining of the two leaders. Long had the wounds of the occupation been a black mark in the hearts of Cailan's people, and he wanted more than anything to move Ferelden forward. A new age of refinement, of foregoing more barbaric customs to put them on par with countries such as Orlais. Though he was not so naive as to believe the people would simply accept a union of matrimony, they could learnt to adapt._

_However, the responses to Celene's letters had lessened in the past four months, the tone falling back into words more impersonal than the those of the empress, and the young sovereign knew why. The reason was tall, cultured, red haired, and lovelier than any other woman he knew. _'It would be better to look to more local prospects than Orlais_.' Eamon had suggested, and suddenly the idea didn't seem without merit._

_Gwyneth was from a lineage of blue blood, as old as Cailan's own, from her mother she had also likely inherited a healthy fertility. Eleanor Davenport-Cousland had four children, one stillborn and another miscarried in the sixth month, but four there had been, with two surviving children. Those points would stand out if Cailan were to make a list of perspective brides, as would the loyalty of Bryce Cousland to the king in question and the man's staunch involvement with protecting the country's best interests in moving forward. _

_What would never be on a list, was the way Gwyneth made him feel. The way her smile was like the sun on his skin, accepting and warm, offering promises of a bright day ahead. How they functioned on the same level, and their interaction was much in kind. She did not chide him about his dreams, in point of fact, doing quite the opposite with both encouragement and the injection of her imaginings to blend with his own. Gwyneth made him do more than just dream, she made it possible to believe such visions could be realized._

_At first it had been the typical deference, with 'Your Majesty's and 'My Lady's aplenty, but now they were just Cailan and Gwyneth. Yet for the simplicity of that, what the young king could never achieve with a lesser noble, his desire for her company was nothing short of consuming and irrational. His liaisons with whatever woman had captured his brief attention, were never difficult to get over and move on from. Such was not so with his Gwyneth, and he could not help but wonder if it wasn't the lack of physical intimacy that made him feel so enamored of one single girl from the Coastlands, yearning for what was just out of reach. Still, Cailan knew that she was more worthy of him than nearly any other woman he'd kept company with, and more to the point, that he was more worthy of her than some simple arl's get or foreign lord._

_The idea of her marrying anyone was very distressing, unless she was to marry Cailan himself, and the idea of _that_ was more pleasing than it should have been._

_Such dreams and fancies carried him forward, even into his meeting, putting an extra jubilance in an otherwise dull affair. In the end, he had won most of them over. The banns were a difficult lot, but not impossible._

* * *

June 11'th, 9:31, Dragon Age

The banns were a difficult lot, but not impossible, Gwyneth had learned that some time ago, and she wasn't without aids to use in her political dealings. Her father had taught her a great deal about politics, and the young queen was most certain that she was more talented a politician than any other woman in Ferelden. Another facet of her personal pride, but one she felt was quite deserved.

There had been times, not even a whole year past, where she'd been willing to advise only, never possessing the desire to be directly involved. Fergus' accusations the last day she'd seen her brother, held that much truth, but things had changed. Before, Gwyneth had been bred and raised to be the bride of a powerful man, but not as queen . . not until her parents and Arl Eamon had made plans centered around Cailan. To be queen was more than just 'some' nobleman's wife, she was the highest of nobility, even more so than the teyrna she would've become, had Fergus not survived and the marriage to Alistair hadn't panned out. It required a more 'hands on' approach, even as she made plans that would put her husband forward as the one in charge, she was the one that wrote his speeches, that decided on what points should be brought to the fore and when. He listened because of his inexperience, but more than that, Gwyneth liked to think that Alistair trusted her input, in politics if nothing else.

Gwyneth stroked her fingers absently over the golden wings of Cailan's amulet, playing with it as her other hand scratched at the parchment before her with a blackened quill pen.

Pale morning sunlight came in through the fluttering curtains of the inn room, the window looking out to the trading port of Dunharrow, where King Alistair was inspecting the village at Queen Gwyneth's insistence. She had wanted him to see how a trading port should work, being that the queen was displeased with the level and function of trade in the capital. The woman had already made the rounds herself and taken notes, but she thought it best that Alistair see the functionality with his own eyes, that and it gave her the solitude she needed to think and plan. Things best done in a quiet room, with little distraction.

Noble had decided to lounge about and enjoy his nice large pillow before they had to set off again that afternoon. Hunting held little appeal in town, and for once, the royal mabari was not so very hungry. He raised a head occasionally to check on his mistress, but apart from that, sleep interested him more than attention and the boon for his silence, was that she hadn't ejected him from the room.

Gwyneth glanced sideways at her royal hound, smiling briefly, before she went back to her work. Alistair would appreciate this in the end, Cailan certainly had, and though she couldn't quite remember everything that been on the map she'd made for the _late_ king, it was more than the _current_ king had at his disposal.

_This_ time, however, Gwyneth would be able to see the fruit of her labors in person, and the idea was almost thrilling.

There were those banns who had holdings outside the bannorn, and of those, a few hedged the center moorlands, but by and large they wouldn't be present at the meeting. More often than not, such banns functioned more as high lords of their holdings. It seemed that those situated within the bannorn itself had the most difficulty getting along, with themselves and their sovereign. Though Gwyneth held to the notion that it was the constant fighting over territory, like a pack of mabari all trying to mark the same row of trees, that was the root of their frequent disagreements.

Trying to satiate all of their desires would be a futile attempt, and the end would lead only to the displeasure of the collected lords, and what few ladies might be in attendance. However, gauging the best way to find out what they really wanted, while revealing nothing of Gwyneth's own advanced plans, would be the real trick and she couldn't deny that she looked forward to the challenge. Alistair liked a good fight to test his skills, Gwyneth preferred a healthy debate for her own talents.

She took her colored inks in hand, inspecting her work. Such was a time that she wished for Zevran's presence. The assassin's history of planning out how to attack his marks had led to a talent with cartography, mapping out entire sewer systems beneath Antiva if his bragging was to be believed, but Gwyneth had seen his skill with ink and quill with her own eyes. She could use his less deadly, yet no less useful talents right then, but hers would simply have to suffice.

"So, the white is the imperial highway, and then . . . black or blue for the streams and rivers?" She dropped a questioning gaze on Noble, the mabari looking up at her, appearing to think about the query before offering a short bark. "Yes, of course black, we need blue to mark the holdings that I know will be favorable towards The Crown. You're so intelligent, my dear Noble, I'm glad you're here." She smiled when he panted happily at her, stubby tail shaking back and forth.

It seemed hours later when she finished, hands cramped and back aching, but her handiwork was all mapped out. Not in the cleanest lines, perhaps, but Gwyneth was well pleased. After all, the geography wasn't as important as the list that went along with it. Thinking on such a thing, the queen went back over it, thrice more for good measure, before she nodded in acceptance. Stretching out her limbs, she winced at the sound of her back cracking from where it'd been stressed out of place.

Rolling the pieces of parchment, tucking them gently under one arm, Gwyneth whistled for Noble as she left the inn room behind. The morning certainly wouldn't move _itself _forward.

* * *

They'd been held back a day by the rains, but the rest of their travel had been clear and it seemed that choosing the Coastway Road was a wise decision. With the trading port of Dunharrow spread out around them, the mostly wooden structures looking pale in bright morning sun, Alistair reinforced that opinion and sent an appreciative nod in Ser William's direction.

His thoughts were still heavy, no matter the success of their travel since leaving the old holding. Alistair couldn't quite come to terms with Gwyneth and what she'd done, and he knew in his heart that no amount of talking could make him accept _or_ reject her actions entirely. All the time he'd known her, even from those very first days, she'd been able to talk him into going along with things he wasn't all that fussed about. It continued all throughout the Blight. The more looming memories, those of the group's support for Bhelen Aeducan to take the dwarven throne, and the killing of all the werewolves in the Brecilian Forest, leaving Keeper Zathrian to continue his unnaturally long leadership of the Dalish clan.

He could hear her voice in the back of his thoughts.

'_Bhelen is the better contender, no matter his demeanor, he is the one that will move the dwarves forward_. _Maybe you like Harrowmont more, but he is stuck in dying ideals, and it will ruin his people. Surely you _must _see that. Their caste system is an antique tradition that only weakens them, and we need the dwarves _strong_ to face the archdemon._'

Making sense even when it _didn't_ make sense, the conundrum of that only continuing.

_'Zathrian's clan needs him, he makes them believe that they can regain what they lost. Illusion or no, the benefit of it remains. I know you don't like that we had to kill the werewolves, but they _are_ monsters. Zathrian was right in that, and they lost control, became violent because he wouldn't buckle to their demands, despite the fact that he _did_ agree to talk. We promised to defend him, and you can't feel baldly about holding up your end of the bargain.' _

Here Alistair was again, doubting himself and the way he would just bend and do what Gwyneth asked, what she nearly _commanded_. Nathaniel Howe was the thorn in _her_ side, not _his_, she made that clear, and Alistair couldn't fault her for wanting to deny the man martyrdom, but it rankled, _sweet Andraste did it ever_! Becoming a Warden was not a punishment, and neither was it redemption for men who didn't deserve it, and if Gwyneth had accepted Riordan's suggestion of making Loghain a Warden . . . even now the thought made Alistair want to rage inside. Yet, when a similar situation was presented with a different man, Gwyneth was able to sway Alistair's thoughts. He could say in all honesty that he no longer knew if Gwyneth was wrong or right, she had made him doubt his _own_ ideals and that was _maddening_.

He took a deep breath, gathering his peace of mind, listening to the sounds of the sea.

From past the wharf, the water glinted, dark but calm with the scent of the ocean wafting over to them. Gulls cried overhead, and for a moment Alistair was transfixed. He'd grown up by the water, but Lake Calenhad was not the same as the coast of the Waking Sea, a vastness to that stretch of open water that seemed limitless to him. Gwyneth _had_ grown up on the northern coast, and he thought that it fit her personality. The tide that rolled in, frothed with a proud white as it reached heights that its lesser lake cousins couldn't achieve as well, was as unforgiving and unpredictable as the queen herself. Dark green sea weeds had gathered on the pale and stony shore, where it was exposed by the lack of dock boards in those areas, reaching out like tendrils, trying to draw the water back. It receded anyway, stubborn in its intent, as the weeds limped back against the sun bleached sand, sagging in defeat, or mourning as the tide rolled back out, lapping only teasingly in its wake.

"We have the wagons all set, Sire." Ser Boughton bowed briefly, following the king's gaze as the taller man only nodded in recognition of the knight's words. "Pretty, isn't she, the coast? Harsher than a cold bitch in the winter though, let me tell you."

Alistair turned to grin at Ser Boughton. "We're Fereldans, we can handle it." He waved the knight off. "Alright, tell Ser William I'm ready to collect my wife and head out when everything is ready."

Boughton nodded, bowing again, before he was just a jogging blot up the cobbled road, weaving out of sight around the corner of the two story inn. As if on cue, Gwyneth walked into view, neck turned to watch the retreating knight, shaking her head in humor as she headed towards the king.

"You've _him_ on a run."

"I think Boughton is just like that, probably why he's so wiry."

"Perhaps. So, I had the maids bring the last of my things down, and Noble has already situated himself next to the driver of the supply wagon. I'd almost take him for a guard dog if I didn't know better." Gwyneth peered up at Alistair, trying a bit of friendly chatter to try and ease him out of the shell he'd been in the past few days, but he only offered her a cursory nod and she sighed. "I know you're feeling awkward, I hesitate to wonder why, but silence isn't going to serve you any better than it has the whole of your life, and we've plans to make. This isn't like Lothering you know, standing on the imperial highway and leaving everything up to me because you just didn't think _you_ could do it. I _need_ your participation."

After their discussion in the abandoned keep, he'd been just as silent as before, except it was filled more with trepidation on his part than animosity. Gwyneth took some measure of hope in that, not feeling as drenched under the weight of another impending fight. It didn't make things anymore comfortable between them however, when Alistair's few words to her were all 'good morning's or 'good night's and the occasional update on what they were doing.

"It's not that, Gwyn, I just . . . I'm thinking." He looked at her out of the corner of his eye, gaze focused back on the shoreline.

She feigned a gasp of surprise, a palm over her heart. "Oh dear me! He _does_ speak after all!" It must have worked, because she saw the smile of amusement threatening at the corner of one of his tugging lips. "Here then, oil for that fire you have burning in your skull." From under her arm, Gwyneth handed him the parchments, and he took them, brown eyes narrow in curiosity.

"What are they?"

"A gift, and perhaps they'll put you in a better mood." She shrugged one shoulder in the direction of the wagons. "Come along, we can look at them briefly before we leave, and you'll have plenty of time to peruse them when we arrive at Bann Teagan's keep."

"Yes, but what _are_ they?" Alistair stood his ground, glancing from the rolled parchments in his hands and back to Gwyneth, not wanting to unfurl them right there where it would be very unwieldy.

"That's for _me_ to know, and _you_ to find out." She winked, not willing to be pulled out of the jubilance her planning had created, and certainly not by Alistair's lackluster reaction. Then she stopped dead in her tracks, the reality and memory of what she'd just said hitting her like ice water. Her playful smirk became a thin line of displeasure as she squeezed her eyes shut tightly.

"What's the matter? Gwyn . . . you look upset." Alistair dared to put a hand on her arm, but she moved away from him, with a shake of her head and a false smile.

"Nothing . . . it's . . . it's nothing." Her voice was overly chipper, she knew, but there wasn't much she could do about it. "We need to go . . . did you tour the docks this morning as I asked?"

"I wasn't sure what you wanted me to look for, but yes, and I think you did a bit more than _ask_, you practically shoved me out the door." The young king grinned despite himself, flicking back a lock of dark blonde that was brushing against his cheek.

"Yes, well, a woman needs her privacy."

"For what?"

Gwyneth snickered, even more when she turned her head to see the bewildered expression on Alistair's face. She'd begun a slow but steady gait up the hillside avenue, the Waking Sea at her back and the caravan waiting for them at the top, Alistair followed behind, almost reluctantly. No matter how he might have changed since being crowned, there was still a naive chantry boy somewhere inside there. "Brave man, to ask such a question, considering the answer could be something you _really_ don't want to know about."

"Oh . . . oh, right. Ahh, sorry."

She'd had her fun, leaving him to ponder more personally feminine possibilities, and now that his embarrassment was blossoming on his face, she grew bored with her teasing. "No, it wasn't anything like that, at least not this morning. I needed to be alone to make your gift."

"You . . . _made_ these? I thought you just went and picked them up here in town."

Gwyneth scoffed. "Not at all."

"Wow. So . . . but you were gone for _hours_ while I toured the docks."

"Technically, _you_ were gone, and _I_ was at the inn still, however it was indeed some matter of hours."

"Hours spent making _these_?" He waved the parchments at her while they walked.

"Yes." She huffed, turning on him when they reached the caravan, and he almost ran into her. "You are beginning to sound like a parrot. It can't honestly be _that_ surprising. I can't fathom _how_ Leliana ever gave you half of those little statues you like, you make it next to impossible to give you _anything_."

"That's not true!" His indignation made more severe by the mention of his sweetheart.

"Isn't it? Just look at them, won't you, the suspense is _killing _me." Gwyneth rolled her eyes sarcastically, playing with the lace at the cuffs of her traveling shirt. Ser William looked over at them and she gave him a friendly nod. "We'll be but a moment, and then I want us on the road, but have the men check over the wagons first please. I'll have no stowaways on this caravan."

"As Her Majesty commands."

Gwyneth turned back to her husband, nudging him as she made sure her braid was nice and tightly woven. "Well, go on then, look at them."

They were only two pieces of rolled parchment, but Alistair unfurled them as if they were bee hives that he wasn't certain had been vacated. Laying them out flat against the seat of the wagon, he turned his head this way and that, finally looking up at his wife, her slightly amused smirk doing nothing to make him understand. "It's a map."

"Not just any map, a _political_ map. See how the different holdings are lined in either blue, red or grey? That represents the known loyalty those banns have to your family, or mine. Blue are definite allies, red are those we should be concerned about, and the grey ones I'm not certain of." At his confused blink, she sighed in exasperation. "For goodness sake, Alistair! I didn't have half as much trouble when . . ." Gwyneth trailed off as her husband's eyes narrowed suspiciously and she only gave a shake of her braided head. "Ah, that's not important, what _is_, however is that both the map and that list there shall come in quite handy at our meeting. I wanted you to be better prepared, and since I can't give you my political skills, I thought I would at least share some of the information such skill is bolstered by." She took them back, as they slid easily from Alistair's tenuous grasp, and rolled them up. "You can look at them at your leisure when we get to Rainesfere, the avenue of Dunharrow is hardly the place to be going over something like this anyway, I just wanted you to see them, is all."

She was blabbering, which wasn't anything that Gwyneth did with regularity and Alistair's wariness was on point, but he almost suspected that she might've been as nervous around _him_ as he was around _her_, lately at any rate. It hadn't seemed very likely before, but even the chance that they shared that made him feel less alone in his discomfort, and he tried to set it aside and find his marital footing again. He didn't really understand her gift, and she certainly hadn't given explanation enough or even the time to comprehend them, but Gwyneth _had_ spent hours making them, to help him when they both knew he still needed assistance in that arena. In that much, at least, he _was_ grateful.

"Gwyneth . . ." Alistair called to her as she made for her saddled mare.

"Yes?"

"Thank you." He tried out a tentative smile, even more cautiously taking her hand to lay a kiss on it, in much the same fashion as he'd seen Ser Caron do. His knights were watching and it made him feel decidedly even more self conscious, but he wasn't going to scold them for it.

"You're very welcome, Alistair"

When she smiled at him, that rare and genuine smile that had so caught his attention as his coronation, there was a new discomfort. One that made him glance back at her several times after they left Dunharrow behind, the sun at their backs and the Bannorn waiting for them.


	38. Chapter 38: Welcome to the Bannorn

**Disclaimer:** _"Dragon Age: Origins" and all its expansions and additional content is the property of Bioware and EA Games. Large portions of written content within the game, as well as Dragon's Age: The Stolen Throne, and Dragon's Age: Calling, are the creation of David Gaider. Original scenarios and characters are used under the creative license of the writer, ItalianEmpress1985. No profit is being made and the following story is for entertainment purposes only_

**Words From The Author: **_So, input on flashbacks is that you prefer them in italics, so I changed the one in the chapter previous and going forward I'll be sure to keep that formatting._

_Here and in the following chapter you'll meet the official (my official that is, not Bioware official) Banns of the Bannorn, which is the central area of Ferelden. There are banns outside of this area, but these are the ones I've settled on for the boundaries of the central moorlands *aka the Bannorn* I gave myself a migraine planning even a 'portion' of Gwyneth's political machinations, and the creation of the names for other bannorns will hopefully come through cleaner than it did in my mind. At any rate, the Bannorn itself is suppose to have a lot of banns within it, yet game and book canon offers only a few, so I had to make up the difference. White River already existed, though I had to flesh out the family a bit more (though you've already met Aurelia Hascal in a previous flashback), and Bann Ferrenly is mentioned in the information of Anders' items from the Awakenings game, so he isn't mine, but the bannorn name is my creation, as well as the rest of his family. Rainesfere is obviously not mine, but beyond that, the rest of them are only my creation, so there won't be any canon associated with them. Not ALL the banns in the whole country would be at the meeting, only those that have holdings within the borders of, or on the borders of, the actual Bannorn._

_As far as Teagan's very minor interest in Gwyneth, it felt enough like canon (with a female PC, not always a female Cousland in particular), despite the fact that getting those dialogue points is optional. So I have included it, but to me it always seemed more a case of attraction than anything substantial. Though I've read some pretty decent stories where it's more than that, but for Fate and Forbearance, he's not in love with her or anything like that. Besides which, I think Gwyneth has enough admirers. As for how he feels about Alistair, I always saw him and Eamon both as caring for him, but hampered by their position and in Eamon's case, his wife as well. I think both men didn't always treat Alistair as they should've, probably Eamon more than Teagan, but I don't think it was caused by lack of affection, just more bad decision making. Though how I see it, may not be how 'you' see it and that's fine, though at this point it's established in the story, but that doesn't mean I'll pitch a fit if others don't share that view. As always, I encourage free thinking, and as long as you're entertained, I'm happy._

_Also, brief note. It isn't a typo, Eamon and Teagan's father (and Rowan's) was named Rendorn, while good 'ole dead Arl Howe was named Rendon. Both in canon, and with a difference of only one letter. I bet the late Arl Guerrein is seething wherever he is now. I'm thinking I might use that later in a flashback or two when I get around to explaining why the Eamon is this story did NOT stay away from Ferelden for the whole duration of the uprising, but that'll be a while yet._

_Most of the politicking takes place in the following chapter, but we're right in the thick of things now boys and girls, and without further ado, I return you to your regularly scheduled program._

_Thank you for stopping in. Watch out for low flying dragons!_

* * *

_**Chapter Thirty Eight:**_

_**Welcome to the Bannorn**_

* * *

June 13'th 9:31, Dragon Age

**G**wyneth raised a hand to her brow, settling back into her saddle, peering out to the dip in the terrain before her. The damp and misted Bannorn that the locals called the moorlands. Even though the sun had deigned to come out that early afternoon, the rolling moors hid their curves well, plenty of shaded copses dotting the lands that fell below sea level, cradled by the taller hills around them.

Willow trees flourished in the summer climate of the Bannorn, and a tall one offered shelter to a small flock of sheep, away from the fence with intent, either their owner's or their own. They were willful animals when the mood struck them. One black faced ewe looked up at the king's caravan, giving a short listless bleet before it was back to its far more enticing task of grazing. Their protectors, a pair of scruffy gray dogs, seemed more interested, ears drawn back as they growled. Noble growled right back and they seemed to recognize the mabari for what he was, settling down on their haunches and watching warily in silence.

It was a bit of a surprise to see the herd out, but then the moorlands hadn't been hit as hard by the Blight as the outlying regions. There had always been ghost stories about the Bannorn, some said it was hallowed ground where those of evil intent feared to tread, others told even wilder tales of banshees wailing into the misted night to search out the souls of their prey, that they would then devour. Gwyneth put no stock in such hokum but perhaps there _was_ something about the lands that kept the darkspawn away.

A thin and sparsely cobbled road led past the sheep and down around a modest family cemetery, the bleached white stones looking paler still in the over bright sun. Two men had been resting against a tall curved headstone, one smoking idly at a pipe, while the other had his broad hat over his face, sleeping; the owners of the dogs and the sheep, like as not. As one of them noticed the royal retinue, golden mabari flags fluttering at the front corners of the largest two wagons, he roused his companion until both of them were shuffling to make an awkward salute.

Alistair smiled at the shepherds, sending them a short wave as they passed by, the two men holding an unpracticed bow.

As Gwyneth turned back to watch the herdsmen, she found them staring after the caravan in surprise. "And so wherever he goes, the king makes an impression amongst the peasantry." She smirked as Alistair flinched, still uncomfortable with the show of fealty he had encountered amongst some of the rabble. His shoulders remained stiff as their company headed farther down the road, stopping at the queen's order, at a lonely windmill, the structure offering a bit of reprieve from the sun and a nearby mill pond providing a drink for the horses. Gwyneth had made it clear that they were to arrive in their formal attire, and needed to freshen up before arriving at Rainesfere.

The location seemed as good as any she could've chosen, and Alistair was willing to concede to his wife and her knowledge of the Bannorn, though he felt an itching to protest against being treated as a second in command. The need to assert his dominance surprised him, and he felt a similar alpha reaction when Gwyneth tossed her hair over one shoulder to smile at him over it.

She was teasing him, he was certain of it, even if the frustrating woman had made no overt movements or said anything obvious, Alistair was still sure that was what she was about. Languidly washing herself in a soaking wet white chemise, winking at him when he 'caught' her at it, and the following days had seen a change in her that Alistair was most certainly not convinced was genuine appreciation for him. The map she'd made was an enigma that he couldn't wrap his mind around, since Gwyneth seemed honestly excited about it, which made it seem more a gift for _her_ than _him_, and yet the two days of travel from Dunharrow to the moorlands had seen both evenings spent with her prying him away from his reading to study her gift. She was up to something, and it made him feel as edgy as a long tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. _He'd stop in her tracks _this_ time . . . just as soon as he figured things out._

"You look lost in thought." She untangled her braid with practiced fingers, brushing out the long ringlets with her hands until she had all of it shaken and pried loose.

Staring at her, trying to stare _through_ her, and suddenly Alistair was caught out, realizing a bit too late that she was talking to him. "I . . . yes, maybe."

An amused curve pulled at one side of Gwyneth's mouth. "Well which is it? Yes or maybe?"

He lowered his voice as he moved closer to her, the pair of them under the shadow of the supply wagon. "Don't keep teasing me."

With an annoyed huff of air, she squared up to him. "For goodness sake! I don't need this right now, Alistair. I'm just trying to get you to relax before we arrive at Teagan's holding. I've teased you before, when we've been friendly with one another, like I _thought_ we were now. You didn't complain _those_ times."

"That was different and I'm just . . ." Some of his knights were laughing amongst each other as they gathered around the pond to wash road dust from themselves, and Alistair hunched his shoulders, grabbing Gwyneth's elbow to steer her around to the other side of the wagon where there was more privacy. Before she could protest, he was speaking again. "I'm just trying to figure out what you want."

"What I _want_?" A roll of her eyes as she slid her elbow from her husband's grasp. "To arrive in Rainesfere with no hassle and looking as proper as we can, and then to find your adopted uncle and ask him to bring me some serving women so I can get a decent bath before dinner. Then, to go over the political map with you again, so that in the morning when we have our first meeting, you are prepared. That, Alistair, is what I want."

"_Nothing _else? Why are you being so nice? You aren't like this, Gwyn, and you can't expect me to keep on acting like it's normal." His voice was angry, his eyes were searching and neither seemed to do him any favors when she only glared in return, arms folded over each other, perhaps arguing the point of her ' being nice' without saying anything, though that silence was short lived.

"Well, forgive me for trying to make some peace between us. The fighting is getting tiresome, even more so the awkward silences, and our meeting tomorrow is very influential. It shouldn't be darkened with our disagreements, there's enough to worry about, far more _important_ things. I thought you understood that, clearly I was mistaken." She narrowed her irises at him, a habit of hers in her ire, but made no move to cede the high ground to him, as it were; feet planted firmly on the damp soil.

"Come on, Gwyn, don't be this way. It isn't . . . I'm not complaining about having peace between us. I'd never complain about _that_."

"Oh no? What is this all about then, Alistair? Hmm? Were your smallclothes bunching where they ought not on the ride here?" A mean smirk was ready and waiting behind her teeth, but Gwyneth managed to restrain herself.

"No! It's only . . ." His mind was buzzing like an angry wasp and he nearly told her '_It's because I don't trust you and I'm on edge_.' An absent hand rubbed self consciously at the back of his neck, only to find it irritated from the sun and the sweat of their travel. He _should've_ told her why he was so bothered, but he didn't. "I just feel overwhelmed. Eamon warned me about the banns, that they aren't easy to please, and I guess I just find it easier to take it out on someone else." She was watching him as he fidgeted, hating himself for his own dishonesty but unable to muster up the desire to bare his thoughts plain. "I'm sorry, Gwyn, and I think . . . I still need your help."

He wasn't the conniving liar that _she_ was, but it must have worked, because her limbs relaxed along with her eyes, a self satisfied smile on her face. It was a rare thing, her ease of forgiveness for any perceived slight, and it didn't make Alistair feel anymore reassured.

"Well then, you shall have it. First and foremost, I was thinking blue for our attire, royal purple _is_ appropriate, but not for the season." She didn't need to look behind her to know he was following, as the two of them went to collect their clothes from the supply wagon. "Perhaps something similar to what you wore during your coronation? I brought two gentlemen's vest, both in blue, but one's a bit darker . . ." A tilt of her head, as she peered into the wagon, appearing to give the matter quite the bit of consideration. "It might be difficult to maneuver in the wagon . . . well, perhaps I'll have your knights hang up one of the tent lines and drape the tarp over it, to give us a little privacy instead. So . . . light blue or dark blue?"

"Pick out what you think works best." Came the disinterested answer, but Gwyneth was pleased enough that he'd conceded the decision making to her, in matters of attire, that she didn't notice his lack of enthusiasm, or more likely she was too excited about the meeting with the banns to care. Alistair listened with one ear as Gwyneth droned on, his eyes following the road to the keep that was teasing into view over a sparsely wooded knoll. Castle Guerrein, and there he would have even more to be concerned about than whether or not he could ever hope to trust his wife again. At Rainesfere he had to be worried over the banns trusting _him_. A hand at his arm caught his attention, Gwyneth fixing him with a gaze severe enough to pause all thought, but for what she said.

_She _had _noticed after all._

"You must govern yourself, show neither trepidation or anxiety. That was but a piffle, what we saw at the Landsmeet. Had the favor not been upon us, you might have seen the truth of it. In Denerim all should fall to bended knee for your favor, no matter their opinion. However, the lords of the Bannorn bite worse than any arl or lord, for they lay in the middle, neither of great prestige, or of low, yet with the responsibilities of both. My father once likened them to pack Mabari, they who can smell fear upon a man as easily as the scent of wood smoke in the air. When they are not under the crown's weight in Denerim, and in their own element, they can hold the high ground. We must not allow that to happen." The fingers tightened on his arm, Gwyneth nearly snarling with the curl of her lip. "Do you understand me, Alistair?"

"Of course I understand, what do you take me for?"

"At present? A man who only half listens when I explain the importance of attire and its effect upon the prestige classes." The shrug that followed was almost nonchalant, as she held out a dark blue vest, brows raised as she waited for Alistair to remove his cloak. "Now, try this on and tell me which one you prefer."

She was behind him, swift hands placing the embroidered vest over his arms, even as she was calling for the knights to create a makeshift screen, behind which they would change after fetching a quick wash. Alistair let his eyes shift, moving with his men, until Gwyneth's palms slid around to his chest, the rest of her following as she smoothed the fabric.

"There now. How does that feel? I had the seamstresses widen the shoulders before we left."

"Why?"

"Well . . . you seem a bit . . . _larger_ than before."

"I'm _not_ fat."

"I didn't say you were." Her face would've looked sincere, if not for the amused tilt of her lips.

"Why are you smirking then?"

"Maybe my face just looks like this without trying."

"No it doesn't." He narrowed brown irises at her, funneling his anxieties into suspicion and focusing it at _her_.

"Have it your way if you like, but I don't find you to be fat." She motioned Ser Amstead over, sending him to secure the tent lines from wagon to wagon. "The tarp to cover the supplies should work fine, so long as we keep them in the wagon and out of the sun, shake the dust from it as well."

The knight bowed, taking up the duties of servants in the absence of them, without complaint. Alistair made a note to thank him later. "As it pleases Her Majesty." Ser Amstead offered a quick bow, and was off on his task.

"They are the Knights of Denerim, they aren't _nursemaids,_ Gwyneth." Alistair scolded, feeling emboldened by it, though Gwyneth was quick to disillusion him.

"I am aware of that, thank you. Whom then should assist us? Seeing as how we did not bring our household along. Perhaps I should write a letter to my Siofra, asking her to come to the moorlands to pitch up a screen for us, and the three weeks it'll probably take her to get here should be easy to explain to the banns. _'Oh, well you see, my lord husband was put off by asking his knights to perform such a service_.' Despite the fact that their position _is_ indeed one of service to king and country." She tightened the stays near his shoulders, fingers working as her mouth moved. "Sometimes I forget that you are still so common, despite what I have tried to instill in you."

The tone of her voice did nothing to disguise the disdain in her words, that she should find Alistair to still be simple, when it came to matters of possessing a higher pedigree. Even as the queen buzzed about her husband, picking at his attire, he wasn't willing to let that go, though the tepid peace between them may have lasted a bit longer. It was _her_ responsibility as well, and he wouldn't bear the weight of it forever, letting her lay her insults on him. Well spoken they might have been, but they were still insults. "Don't talk to me like that."

"Like what?"

"You bloody well know! I'm not going to stand here and just take it anymore."

She sighed, hands paused at the engraved buttons of his vest. "I apologize."

He growled, well immersed in his anger. "No of course not, you never . . . wait, what?" As the reality of her words hit him, he had nothing to do with his irritation but let it sit there.

"I do not mean to sound . . . discontent. It is merely that you _are _common, in many ways still, and I know that you can't remain so. You have generations of blue blood in those veins that outweigh any bit of peasantry that might remain, and it's . . . well it's frustrating. I can see what you might be, but you cling to these old ideals and sentiments, and they won't help you to be a better king, and I want that. For all my conceit, such as _you_ perceive it, you have to believe that I wish the very best for Ferelden, above even myself." Whether Gwyneth was genuinely apologetic had gotten lost in her ability to turn almost everything into a speech. It was of great aid where they were going, but not nearly as much in her own marriage.

Yet something must have stirred in Alistair's mind, because the anger seemed to leave him. "I don't think it's as worthless as you imagine, 'common' blood. Maybe it makes me see things differently, but that's not always a bad thing. It can't be, because not everyone is the same, so why should every noble be the same? Our differences, don't they make us who we are?"

Gwyneth smiled, feeling proud of this man that she had called a fool, a worthless stable boy, later a friend, and later than that, a husband. "There, you see? That bit of wisdom you like to hide behind an odd sense of humor and off hand commentary." Lowering her voice, it lost it's taunting quality, eyes serious beneath her lashes. "The peasants will love you for it, you know, your half common blood, much as the commoners loved Loghain and Anora because they were kindred in that. But I fear you will find some dissention amongst the banns, who will see you as a half breed covetous upstart, now that the shiny glimmer of a new crown has begun to wear off. We used that thinking to our advantage at the Landsmeet, against the Mac Tirs, when we announced our intention to join our houses, but my name won't aid you forever, and not in all things. You must be cautious to present the stronger side of your blood, your father's lineage, for Loghain _never_ had that, and his daughter had but a drop of low nobility from her mother. Show the banns that you are Maric's son in all things, while maintaining an individuality that will allow you to outshine him, and you might brook a similar reaction as you did from the herdsmen back there. Shoulders straight, remember, head held high . . . and do not forget, you _are_ superior." Irises narrowed in sternness. "None of them had serving girls for mothers, but none of them had the King of Ferelden for a father either."

As Ser Amstead returned to bring the tarp and slung it over the tent lines, Alistair lowered his voice on par with his wife's. "You make it sound like I should always walk around with my ego as large as Thedas. What about humility?"

Gwyneth climbed into one of the wagons, the area surrounding it now hidden away behind the pale white cheesecloth tarps. She spoke over her shoulder, her posture not lending itself to severity, but her words were all the same. "I think you'll find there's very little use for humility in the Bannorn.

* * *

Teagan Guerrein shifted on the balls of his feet, his thumbs idly twiddling as he watched the snaking road that lead up to his holding, the knoll tapering down around a small patch of trees, the rocky soil baring large stones under the sun. Behind him were most of his collected servants, what few that weren't, remaining in the gray stone keep at their backs, making last minute preparations for a royal visit. He was a man that lived modestly, and the number of staff he had was never kept very large, which suited the Bann of Rainesfere just fine, except in such instances where he hosted his fellow nobles of the Bannorn. At least most of them had thought to bring their own footmen and the like.

Ruben Hascal, Bann of White River, sent Teagan a brief nod. He was a good man, and a loyalist to the crown, which would certainly help matters. His wife was a severe woman, but had good footing with the late Couslands, and likely decent ties to the queen and her teyrn brother.

The Strathclydes of Strathmore were harder to figure out, but he didn't suspect any trouble from their quarter either.

He was less certain of the young Tarquin Loren, formerly of Lothering, but more recently of Nevarra, where the remnants of his family remained. The young lord was sure to make an official bid to take his father's title of bann, but he had been content until then, to let Lord Lothian manage what was left of the settlement and surrounding lands. With his mother and youngest brother killed in the plot against the Couslands, and his father taking up with the late Teyrn Mac Tir and falling during the Blight, there was nothing of reassurance _or_ certain animosity and the lad himself hadn't said much since he arrived. Lord Loren brought his younger brother, Zacharius with him, and _that_ man was far too twitchy to make Teagan comfortable, but he gave his instructions for his servants to be generous with him, lest there be an incident during the meeting. Then he'd be on his way, and Rainesfere wouldn't have to play host to his . . . eccentricities.

In more worrisome matters, Kesteven had frequently been a troublesome holding, the Pontifax family having been whittled down over the years due to some difficulties with fertility. The desperation of their survival had often led to bloody disputes within the Bannorn, only the word of the late Cailan calming those waters, and Teagan half suspected it had been Anora's words that did most of the work. Yet they had barely taken a second breath before siding with Loghain Mac Tir during the Blight, and their dislike of the new king and his bride was hidden thinly enough that there had been blatant rumors when Lord Osborne had arrived during the Landsmeet. The man himself stood there next to Teagan, well into his sixtieth decade and his face no kinder for the years he'd been granted. His first wife had been dead for some time, and the only occasion that Osborne looked happy at all, was when he was parading his significantly younger second wife about.

Rounding them out were the calmer but no less quieter or covetous banns of Rochforth Falls and Eastbrook. Teagan had dealt with all of them individually, and though he'd certainly been present for larger meetings, Eamon usually came in support, as did the other arls. Today and tomorrow he had only himself, his adopted nephew and the young aristocrat that was their queen. It should prove interesting, if nothing else.

He heard the horns of the guards at the cobbled wall long before he saw the caravan, all and sundry straining their necks to see, as the golden banners came into view, the retinue of wagons making their way with a slowness that was as exasperating as it was sure. In the sun, the shiny armor of the king's knights seemed even more so, and Teagan credited Gwyneth's instructions and some well applied polish. He'd not seen her since her marriage to Alistair, and she'd cut an impressive and stunning figure then, and he didn't imagine much had changed in that regard.

For the second time in as many months, the unmarried Bann of Rainesfere found himself wishing he'd made some interest in Gwyneth known before. If he had realized she'd grown up so well, he might have, but fate, as always, was an unkind mistress, and that realization came far too late. Now she was Alistair's wife, and Teagan was not so afflicted with jealousy as to do anything against the boy, certainly not for a lady he barely knew. He could admit to himself that most of the interest was based more on her fine countenance than her personality, he didn't know her well enough to base it on that instead.

Though it was his affection for the new king that kept his interest to little more than a passing daydream. He loved Alistair as well as he could, finding in the lad an infectious jubilance that saw past the unimpressive blood of his mother, and such had never been Alistair's fault. Long had Eamon and Teagan had a relationship with Maric's second son that was more familial than was appropriate, but never enough that Alistair had felt comfortable calling them uncle, nor they to call him their nephew. Though that changed when Alistair was given the crown, when the propriety of such personal titles was not only _not_ inappropriate anymore, but nigh on demanded by the propriety of court. People liked a sense of unity and family, and that's what they were given, but for Teagan's sake, a bubbling fondness remained for Alistair and the bann couldn't say that he was sorry to be calling him 'nephew' in public now.

Gwyneth had her head sheltered by a strange small canvas contraption, the tassels hanging down in fancy tendrils, the edging cuffed with lace. Later someone would inform him that it was a parasol, but when he first laid eyes on it, Teagan's brows came together in confusion. Dressed in dark blue, she made a good match for Alistair, the breadth of his shoulders encased in gold trimmed fabric of the same shade. The king waited for the heralds to announce them, before extending a hand to Gwyneth to help her down. It was a courtly gesture of gentility that didn't go unnoticed, even way out in the country holding of Rainesfere.

Teagan expected Gwyneth to speak first, she'd had a knack and fondness for speeches as far as he could tell, but it was Alistair instead, the words surprisingly certain and confident. They seemed more from a written speech than anything that Alistair would've said on his own, though no one except Teagan and Gwyneth were likely to know that, but he delivered them with aplomb.

"Thank you for meeting us here, good people of the Bannorn. I apologize we were so late in arriving, as we were waylaid. I look forward to finding a solution to the problems of my banns, and you _are _my banns, so after a hearty dinner and some decent sleep, we can begin to find the answers you would seek."

They bowed together, the banns and their wives, and it was likely the last thing they'd do in kind for quite awhile.

"Your Majesties, I thank you for coming, as I'm sure we all do. Welcome to Rainesfere, and though Castle Guerrein is quite humble, compared to the royal palace, I'm sure, I have taken it upon myself to make sure your accommodations are as comfortable as they can be." Teagan smiled broadly, going through the proper motions, instead of the mellow greeting he would've given the pair if they hadn't had such an audience. A rusted orange and cream doublet was showing a bit of gold thread in the afternoon light and making his shoulders look somehow wider as he bowed. His hair was nearly the same deep cinnamon red as the queen's but for the strands of dark brown shot through it, and combed neatly in a shoulder length style that seemed reminiscent of the way the king was wearing his own hair those days. "Please, let us all collect ourselves and get comfortable before dinner. I'm sure everyone is looking forward to that."

"I do hope there's no rabbit stew involved, I grow so tired of it." Banness Victoria Pontifax sniffed lightly, raising her strawberry blonde head to appear stiff at her husband's side, playing at the edge of her gown's sleeve. Her husband, forty one years her senior and head and shoulders taller, glowered at his young bride briefly so as not to be caught at it, clearing his throat.

"Darling, Bann Guerrein always puts on an excellent feast, I'm sure." He nodded his silvery head in the younger bann's direction, hoping to have avoided an embarrassment in front of the sovereigns. Whether he liked them or nay, it just wouldn't do to allow them to think of him or his wife, as lax in their courteous conduct.

"Yes, yes . . . I suppose." Victoria let her eyes wander from her husband, to the king, smiling at him as she took up the excess of her skirt to clear the cobbles as they all began the short walk to Castle Guerrein, the knights and footmen left behind to settle things in and make their own way. "Does His Majesty enjoy stew? I'm told it is a staple of Redcliffe."

Gwyneth snickered, hiding it behind a demure cough as Alistair nudged her in the side, briefly enough that no one noticed.

"I like _some_ stews, yes, though I believe something a little heartier would be better, it was a long trip . . . almost _too_ long."

That time it was Gwyneth that got _him_ in the side, narrowing irises at him in a silent reminder to not complain. He held himself together enough to not let his irritation show, only smiling in return to the pretty young Banness of Kesteven.

"Though, I'm certainly glad to be here."

"As we all are, good king, and more fortunate are we that you arrived here _safely_." Bann Ruben Hascal added, not seeming insincere, though the set of his face was hard to discern through the steal grey of his beard.

The man reminded Alistair of Eamon, and he spared a thought for his steward as he answered. "I have to thank my knights for that, I couldn't ask for better, and my steward as well. Arl Eamon was the one to suggest those who were not already knighted." His knights, of whom he had a few true gentlemen, and then those men who might have been decent, if not for an unnatural fear of the dark, an obsession with gambling, a bad habit of smoking lotus, and a propensity for spending most of their free time in whorehouses so they could ignore their wives. They were, after all, men, the same as others of lesser peerage, but no one wanted to hear that. People wanted to romanticize knights as the heroes of tales of old, valiant and never sinful or full of pride. Though Alistair wasn't at all certain of his ability to weave half truths, he did know enough to make the compliment sincere. It wasn't too difficult, since for all their faults, they were in fact a loyal company of men, who would give their life to save his own.

"Indeed . . . the Guerreins must be thanked for a great many things." Osborn Pontifax again, moving in the same slow pace as the others and probably grateful for it, but his face was proof of nothing, least of all gratitude.

Alistair watched the man, only nodding in agreement, unsure of what exactly that meant. Already he was dissecting the things the banns were saying, and it was all just inane chatter and greetings. _'How much worse will it be at the meeting tomorrow, or even dinner tonight?' _The young king wasn't sure he really wanted to know, but he was certain to find out.

* * *

"You didn't say a thing! You just stood there and let me talk to those . . . people, on my own!" Alistair glowered, setting himself on a wide wooden chair in their appointed room, to pull off his boots. He rubbed at his sore heels, tearing off a pair of fine woven socks as a pair of ladies brought in a tub of warm water and therapeutic salts. The wafts of lazy steam smelled of mint and other mixed herbs that Alistair couldn't identify by fragrance alone. He held his tongue until the servants left. "I made an idiot of myself."

Gwyneth was already comfortable in a shift and one of her thinner robes, the gown she was to wear for dinner, hanging over a rack by the wardrobe. Having to explain the necessity of not dressing in the same clothes they arrived in, was almost as irritating as explaining why they couldn't arrive in their traveling attire had been, but Alistair was filled with enough anxiety about discussing anything with the Bannorn, that he didn't fight her on it nearly as much.

It was possible that Gwyneth would've been happy about that, if Alistair's shot nerves didn't grate so much on her own. She nearly bit her tongue to keep from telling him off like she really wanted to. Sharing a portion of honesty, flavored with her own brand of charm, had worked to keep a peace between them better than anything she might have tried before, and it was her own temper that sat on that precarious balance now, but she was determined to keep things calm. So she smiled instead, going around behind him to put her hands at his shoulders, the man's muscles bunching up beneath the thin white material of his shirt, the doublet he was to wear thrown casually across the bedspread.

"Relax . . . now, where was that spot you said Duncan told you would take the kink out of your neck?"

Alistair started at so casual a mention of his late Warden Commander's name, a man Gwyneth had never professed more than a grudging respect for. "It was . . . uh, the base of the skull, just above where . . . ahh!" He let out a sharp groan when he heard a crack at the persistent movements of her fingers.

"Wrong spot I take it? Sorry . . ." The pads of Gwyneth's fingers felt stiff even to her, as she dug them into the taut muscles in Alistair's neck where it met his shoulders. "How about here?"

He tilted his neck forward, flexing under her ministrations as he set his aching feet into the small tub on the floor. "Mmm . . . that's better." Which was only half true, because the massage did wonders for his muscles tension, but very little for tension of an entirely different sort, that he'd felt building for days if not weeks. When Gwyneth had her hands all over him, it was all he could do to remind himself that it was unwise to indulge in that activity with Gwyneth. Both times had ended badly, one the very next day, and the other a few days later.

"You didn't make an idiot of yourself at all, by the way."

Her words seemed to come out of nowhere and brought Alistair out of his thoughts, but if she noticed his wayward mind, she didn't make a note of it.

"You stuck to the speeches I wrote out for you, which I thought were delivered well, and the rest of it . . . it was just conversation, and had you been in any danger of mucking things up, I would've intervened." Gwyneth kept her register low, just shy of crooning at him. If Alistair was so riled up at dinner, she'd have her work cut out for her two fold to keep him from saying something disastrous in his nervousness.

"Yeah, but you're never as quiet as you were this afternoon."

"I need to test your ability to speak with the nobility without me, otherwise I won't know what further instruction you may need. Besides, it's like I've already said, if there was imminent potential for you to truly say something asinine, I would have spoken before it got out of hand and smoothed things over. I'm good at that, if you recall."

"I do, yes." He remembered the many occasions that she'd exhibited that, but that she'd bring it up herself made him snort in sour humor. "You've never really been modest, have you?"

Gwyneth feigned insult, pausing the massage for a moment, to respond. "Of course I have! I certainly don't parade about like some harlot, but if you are referring to a modesty centered more around humility, then no. Why should I be? I am brilliant, well bred, educated, beautiful and resourceful, as well as a great many other things. Those are truths I recognize about myself and I see no reason to pretend otherwise."

He chafed at that, not hiding his opinion that time. "Well, for one, it can be a little . . . intimidating and annoying. Sometimes you come across like you're a braggart."

"It's only bragging if it's _embellished_. My charms and attributes are _plainly_ true, there's nothing _embellished_ about them." She smiled egotistically behind his back, returning to the work of her fingers on his neck. "You could do with some self esteem yourself."

"I _have_ self esteem . . . sometimes."

"Not nearly enough for the King of Ferelden."

He rolled his eyes, even as he eased back into her wonderful prodding fingers. "Here we go again. Why are you so insistent on making it seem like I should be some kind of . . ." Alistair paused for the right image to make with his words. "Some kind of swaggering peacock?"

"I'm not suggesting that all, what I'm saying is that you are a king of men and I just wish you'd realize what that means. When you have pride in _yourself_, it's far easier for your people to have pride in you as well."

"What if I develop _too_ much pride?"

Gwyneth laughed, his worry so unfounded as to be comical. "Alistair, there's hardly any worry of _that_, you're modest enough for the both of us." She leaned down to give one last deep rub of her fingers into his neck, before coming back around to begin her own regimen of relaxation before dinner.

He felt a shiver run up his spine when her breath touched his ear, and he sucked in a lungful of air, but any further reaction was cut short as the warmth of her hands left his bared skin. "Gwyn . . ."

"Yes?"

_'Do you have any idea what you've been doing to me? Do you care?'_ He sighed, shaking his head at himself. "Nothing, it's nothing. Not important."

"For the last time . . . _relax_!" The sharp command came from behind a wooden screen, her head peering out past the edge to watch him, as he settled like a lump into the chair, rubbing a palm over his eyes.

_'That's easier said than done.'_ He closed his lids to darkness, trying to fill his mind with anything that could ease all the tension from him. Finally at the grumbling of his stomach, the king at least found something to distract him from it . . . hunger. If only he could _always_ be distracted, but that was a useless thing to wish for.

* * *

Though Castle Guerrein itself was made of a similar washed out grey stone as other keeps of the same architectural era, inside everything seemed to be of wood, with very little padding or fabrics, save essentials. Rendorn Guerrein had been an arl of simple tastes and that was only compacted by being forced to bear under Orlesian rule. In the end of things, when the Rebel Queen, Moira had turned his head back to the truth of what it meant to be Fereldan, any frivolities that there _had _been, were obliterated by the harsh necessities of rebellion and war.

The keep of Rainesfere, owned by generations of Guerreins, was meant to be a summer retreat from the humid heat of Lake Calenhad during the sun-peaked season, but it hadn't seen use as such since before the occupation. Teagan wasn't even sure if their father had ever set foot in the place. As a political waypoint, it had been appointed to Teagan as a means of consolation when Eamon became the new Arl of Redcliffe in Rendorn's place.

_"Rowan is to be queen, and I am the second oldest, it's obvious that the arling will be mine, but I don't think you should be left out in the cold, little brother. I have been thinking of giving you Rainesfere as your holding when I return home." _

_In his early twenties, Eamon's voice had none of the gruff register it would develop later on, but it had all the trademarks of a man that would do everything in his ability to see that things would be done to his specifications. Teagan had still been in the adolescence of his youth, and he cared nothing for politics or holdings, but the idea of having a keep all his own seemed appealing, even if he _did_ think that Eamon only wanted to keep his younger sibling out of the way of his own political dealings._

Now there he was, hosting a meeting of the Bannorn, alone for all intents and purposes, Eamon too busy holding Denerim together. Teagan sighed, seated at the right corner of the table, the chairs at the ends of that long slab of engraved oak, reserved for the king and queen. Alistair, King of Ferelden, would be seated so that Teagan was his 'right hand', an arrangement done on purpose. The bann, falling comfortably between thirty and forty, was neither the youngest or oldest bann in attendance, and that at least gave him some freedom from heightened focus. However, such would only be turned on him twice over with the position of importance his relationship to the king gave him.

_He had still been shy of twenty when Alistair was brought to Redcliffe, under the cover of night and with as little announcement as was possible. Eamon had commanded his presence there for a 'dire family matter', as had been written on the summons. Such a small thing he was, swaddled up in a knitted infant's blanket, considering the height the boy had achieved as he matured, but quiet, almost unnaturally so, as he rubbed toothless baby gums with pudgy fingers. Eamon was speaking to the king, Maric looking haggard and dismal as he paced the confines of the arl's study. _'How long ago had that been?' And he remembered the night as if it were no more than a week in passing. _A maid realized she'd forgotten the babe's milk bladder and rushed off with a quick apology to retrieve it, passing the infant to the shocked young bann's hands as he fumbled to hold the baby, something he'd never done. _

_Alistair's eyes had been a rich brown then, just tinges of what was left of his newborn blue teasing around the edges, and soon that would be gone. He looked up at Teagan, and the boy hadn't been sure if the baby really saw him or not, and spittle covered fingers left the infant's mouth to try and reach up to feel his handler's face. The bann had wrinkled his nose, mildly disgusted, but also intrigued. He'd never been that close to a baby before, and oddly enough, he had a nice smell to him. Something milky and soapy, and not at all the stench Teagan had believe all infants possessed._

_"So, they tell me your name is Alistair. What do you think of it?"_

_He'd burbled, fussing for a few seconds, before the fingers went back in the mouth._

_"Yes, I don't particularly like my name either."_

_Now look at the both of them_, Teagan finding a few stray silvers hairs hiding at his temples, perhaps a sign of the stress involved in running a holding within the Bannorn. Alistair, that burbling, drooling baby, was now a grown man, albeit a young one, and king of the whole Maker forsaken country. It seemed almost laughably impossible, but there it was, reality at its finest. Teagan was brought out of his musings by the prickling feeling of someone's gaze on him from the other side of the table.

Osborne Pontifax narrowed sharply trimmed grey brows above his unfriendly eyes, no doubt imagining how much he hated the Guerreins and reminding himself of how unfair a shake his own family had been given. Teagan only smiled, feeling a cheekiness that didn't speak to his years, not as much as the beginnings of crows feet from too many wide grins and squinted eyes from bright noonday suns. At that, Osborne lifted his goblet, pretending he had been too busy drinking and had somehow missed the silent exchange between himself and the Bann of Rainesfere.

The murmurs of discussion and judging looks ceased for a moment as the king and queen entered the dining hall, after a brief but loud announcement, looking resplendent in light blue that contrasted with the darker hue of what they'd arrived in. A matching set for all to see, and it was clearly intentional, but had no less of an effect for it. Gwyneth was beaming, of fine countenance as usual and her face suggesting that she was looking forward to dinner, as she had an arm curled around her husband's, fingers resting at his ruffled cuff to nod and smile at those gathered as he helped her to sit. His hand was still in hers until he'd leaned down to whisper in her ear, and at the queen's nod, the king moved to take his own seat.

"Teagan."

"Alistair."

A brief and friendly greeting.

"That look suits you." The bann smiled, bringing his chair closer to the table as the other collected banns made their own chatter and greetings, Gwyneth receiving similar attention at her end of the table.

"I better hope so, she'll have me dressed like this until I'm dead, probably." Alistair whispered back, at a chuckle from his adopted uncle. How odd a thing _that_ was, but it was the way of things now. Everyone conveniently forgetting how Alistair had been set aside and hidden away, before the Blight came along and Ferelden's future nearly fell through the cracks the darkspawn caused.

For now, there was a modicum of relaxation, until the cooks had finished dinner and it was brought out, after which Alistair had been prepared to make a speech. Then the pretense of casual talk would begin while everyone _really_ was trying to measure out their opponents. Gwyneth had explained it to him, that this was an opportunity to 'test the waters' and figure out who was likely to cause the most difficulty in tomorrow's official meeting. She was in true form, lending an ear to a smiling Banness Hascal and nodding some agreement, looking up briefly to catch his look across the table. '_Relax_' those eyes said, a continuing command since they'd been getting ready, and he was still trying to find a way to do that.

"She looks very beautiful."

"Pardon?" Alistair turned a head to Teagan, momentarily confused and forced to gather his wits back together.

The Bann of Rainesfere cleared his throat, speaking slower on the second delivery. "Gwyneth, she looks lovely tonight."

"Ahh, yes, yes she does." He took a sip from his goblet almost as soon as the servant had dipped to fill it, the dull tang of honeyed mead meeting his lips, watching the woman in question across the length that separated them. Gwyneth's creamy skin and dark red hair made her a vision in blue, the contrast standing out. Light blue, a shade that reminded him of his Leliana and all at once the thought of _her_ eyes hit him with a force it hadn't in months.

The frustration with Gwyneth, and now his duties with the equally frustrating Bannorn, mingled with a plaguing self doubt and feelings of loneliness, had left him vulnerable to memories he'd been trying to forget, for his own good if nothing else. Yet, there she was in remembrance, eyes alight, looking up at the stars, singing tales of a maiden's love and hero's plights. She wouldn't know what to make of him now, and for a heart wrenching moment, Alistair felt ashamed for forgetting about her, even momentarily. He'd promised to love her, always, but his promises had proved worthless, and what was worse was that no one was around who even cared, no one but him.

They'd all tell him how lucky he was to have Gwyneth instead. Some honestly, and others with the false notion of placating him by reminding the king of the wife he never wanted. Until lately, when just her hands on him, helping him get dressed, or kneading at his neck, brought to mind how she arched her back when he'd moved just _so_ inside her, or the keening wails she made beneath him. Alistair winced, feeling miserably guilty and took a gulp of ale that nearly choked the air from his lungs.

"I do say, Sire, it is a strong vintage isn't it? Teagan always _did_ like his dwarven ales."

The king tried to recall the name of the bann at his left, a generous smile tipped his way as the man's wife chuckled in good humor beside him.

Attenbury, Burington Attenbury, Bann of Eastbrook. Their loyalties had been underlined in grey on Gwyneth's map, so he wasn't a sure thing. Married young, with their first child, a son that same year. Both of them now in their early forties. Janella, was the banness' name.

All those checkmarks came to Alistair's tortured mind in a fractured, unorganized order, but at least he remembered. "Oh, it's not so bad, I've had stronger."

"Truly? And it didn't put you on the floor?" Burington raised a brow, the banness equally interested as she leaned closer to her husband.

It could have been a honest curiosity that spurred the question, it could have been a good natured rib, or it could have been a malicious prod, attempting to suggest the new king was a lush and couldn't hold his spirits. Alistair wasn't sure which, and there was nothing on the other man's face to make it obvious, fine lines here and there and all of them relaxed. _'How does Gwyneth _do_ this? It's maddening!_' She was engaged in talk with Lord Loren, and hadn't had a free moment to note his distress. He was on his own, despite her assurances of earlier, and Alistair felt a knot forming between his shoulder blades, in tandem with the pressure points inside his eye sockets.

A manufactured smile pulled his lips taut, a tilt of his goblet towards the other man forced to be nonchalant. Self esteem, that's what Gwyneth told him he could use more of, and he tried, hoping it wasn't a disastrous thing to say. Remind them that he was his father's son, no matter his own feelings about it, she'd said, and he used that too. "It takes more than some strong ale to put a _Theirin_ on the floor ."

Bann Attenbury grinned, tipping his own goblet right back. "So I've heard, Your Majesty. You and I should talk about the vineyards _I_ own sometime, it isn't ale, but it packs a punch a swift as a kick from one of my mules. I could lend some to the Crown, mules that is, for the repairs you surely must need throughout the capital. Perhaps in exchange for a reissue of the borders of Eastbrook."

"Burington, maybe we could leave negotiations for the morrow. All this talk of mules turns my stomach and I imagine we are all ready to eat, it's been a long day." Teagan interceded as casually as he could, turning a hand to motion to his servants, all carrying in covered trays of their dinner. "Roast pheasant, early summer vegetables and herb bread with a _mild_ cheese spread. Bad breath, after all, is a sin unto our wives."

"I'll believe that when you actually _have_ a wife, Teagan." Brandon Rochforth, Bann of Rochforth Falls, snickered, full mouth curling up to make the middle aged man almost look like a cat. It earned a table of laughter, both genuine and that clearly produced only to maintain the _appearance_ of unity.

_'There's very little use for humility in the Bannorn_.' Apparently there wasn't much use for sincerity, either.


	39. Chapter 39: Speechcraft

**Disclaimer:** _"Dragon Age: Origins" and all its expansions and additional content is the property of Bioware and EA Games. Large portions of written content within the game, as well as Dragon's Age: The Stolen Throne, and Dragon's Age: Calling, are the creation of David Gaider. Original scenarios and characters are used under the creative license of the writer, ItalianEmpress1985. No profit is being made and the following story is for entertainment purposes only_

**Words From The Author: **_A lot of this was in the previous chapter, but it was so damn long, that I knew it had to be two chapters instead. This chapter is still quite long despite that, it might even be my longest chapter to date and there is a LOT of political information to process, in some instances I almost felt it was beginning to get boring because there was so much info, but it is a necessary evil, and I hope you all can absorb everything and still be entertained. So thank you for bearing with me as I got to the point of the matter. ;)_

_So, in this chapter, you'll see a lot more of dark age mentality. In that women shouldn't lead and men like Loghain shouldn't be granted a teyrnir because they are from common stock. You've seen a bit of this before, but it is prevalent in this chapter more so than others, due to the largely aristocratic and political environment of this installment. Obviously not everyone feels this way, but I've written the nobility as sharing in this. Not because of any personal beliefs of mine, but for the simple fact that I want this story to be a darker, grittier portrayal of dark fantasy meets dark age. Do I 'have' to make the story more historically flavored to the inspirational ages? No, especially considering that sometimes the language can have a few more modern tidbits thrown in, but I think that to write a dark fantasy that uses only 'some' elements of medieval and renaissance values, while writing the remaining majority with modern western society views wouldn't make it nearly as visceral, gritty, or to me, as investing a story to weave. Though I try not to go overboard, because honestly, who wants to read a history book when they're looking for Dragon Age stories instead?_

_And I know reading these little missives of mine must get trying at times, but for those that already knew where I was going, there are too individuals that may not and may be offended by views in this story that go against their own personal feelings. Such is the risk of writing, whether it is fan fiction or a published work. Not everyone is going to enjoy what you write, but these public service announcements I make are an attempt to at least smooth 'some' feathers, and I thank you for indulging me, both now and in the future :D_

_Special Note:__ I've put up a link in my profile to an updated image of the Bannorn, with the holdings mentioned on it, as well as their political status underlined. On the map you will also see the port town of Dunharrow, as mentioned in this story, and Brackenridge from quite a few chapters back, in addition to the bannorn (not THEE Bannorn, just bannorn) of Waking Sea, where Alfstanna is from. These aren't official locations, there aren't any official canon locations for these places, but these will now be their official locations in the story. I thought you might all appreciate a look at what we're seeing._

_Also, Happy Birthday to the United States for this weekend!_

_Thank you for stopping in. Watch out for low flying dragons!_

* * *

_**Chapter Thirty Nine:**_

_**Speechcraft**_

* * *

_There can be no power without mystery. _

_There must always be a 'something' which others cannot altogether fathom,_

_Which puzzles them, stirs them, and rivets their attention._

- _Charles de Gaulle_

* * *

June 17'th 9:29, Dragon Age

_**"I**__ will brook no argument on this Eleanor. Gwyneth _is_ going to the pierhouse meeting with me."_

_"Bryce, it is hardly appropriate for a young lady to be more than the voice behind her lord, and Gwyneth is not yet married as you well know, so she should have even _less_ involvement than _that_. Women do not belong in meetings, no more than to observe and even that could be troublesome if you do not have the right minds in attendance."_

_Early in their marriage, the Teyrn and Teyrna of Highever had been at each other's throats, their strong personalities clashing more often than not, but time had worn smooth some of the sharp edges. That afternoon it was clear that despite their decades together, Bryce and Eleanor Cousland still weren't _completely_ in agreement. Though at least their arguments were held in private, away from eavesdropping ears._

_Afternoon sunlight spilled into the well furnished study, rows and rows of history books lining the shelves at Bryce's back as he leaned forward to press both palms flat on a dark wood desk, the fresh polish almost making him slide forward. Silver eyes glared at his wife, meeting unrelenting green when Eleanor only glared back, sitting casually in a gold damasque chair on the opposite side. The woman's poise kept her looking intimidating without the need to stand, and she made sure to use that to her advantage._

_"Bryce, I _refuse_ to let you take her to your meeting. I'll not have _my_ daughter made to be comfortable in the affairs of men, or would you have Gwyneth's chances at securing a good match piddled away by your own nonsensical ideas? Who in high standing would have a woman who behaves as if she is instead a man? Are you forgetting Lord Hortense's daughter, Alfstanna? That girl parades herself around in the muck in the same muddy armor her husband would come back in from a hunt. She's the laughing stock of the coast. It is only sheer idiot luck and desperation that led to her being married off at all, and then it was to that cur of a boy, Corvus. One may hope that as the new Banness of Waking Sea that she's come to her senses, lest she instill that same impropriety in her children." Eleanor steepled her hands together, thumbs pressed against the boning of her summer gown, watching the frustration painted across her husband's face._

_Bryce took a deep breath in, calming himself away from the anger Eleanor had a talent for stirring in him. "We aren't talking about Alfstanna, we are talking about Gwyneth, who isn't just _your_ daughter, she is _mine _as well, and I challenge you to infer that I don't have her best interests in mind _one more time_. I don't care how long you've been my teyrna, I'll send you off to the Marches to educate the masses. Maker knows they need it."_

_"You wouldn't dare!"_

_"Try me!"_

_Neither one of them appeared to bow under, until finally Eleanor leaned back in her seat, letting out a huff. "Stubborn man! And you wonder where Fergus and Gwyneth get it from? I'd think that was obvious." When he only smirked, that damned all knowing Cousland smirk, she knew there was no choice but to concede. "You really are determined to do this, knowing that it could reflect poorly on her? Why?"_

_"I don't think it will be as detrimental as you imagine, darling. She's not out in the practice yard getting dirty with Fergus, she isn't gutting deer, and the last time I checked Gwyneth was positively enamored of gowns. She won't be anything like Alfstanna, she's a lady down to her bones." His eyes were shining bright in pride and excitement. "But _this_?" The smirk became a smile. "You didn't see her, Ellie, down there in the courtyard, with Arl Guerrein. Holding her own with him, and she must've been paying attention during her history lessons, because everything was right there on her tongue. The two of them, old Eamon and our Gwyn talking like the highest members of court about what should be done with all the abandoned manor homes along the Coastway Road. Full of big ideas, our girl, and he listened, Eamon actually _listened_, without my interference."_

_"Bryce . . ." The teyrna cautioned, knowing from his tone that her husband was riling himself up for something that was likely beyond his ability to keep in check. Gwyneth hadn't inherited _all_ her 'big ideas' from her mother's side._

_"No, hear me out. There's something there, something in her sharp little mind, I can feel it. I can't quite put my finger on it, but Gwyneth has presence, she carries it with her all the time, and it should be used for far more than just standing pretty at her husband's arm." Eleanor sighed, but Bryce only surged forward. "I think she could make more than just a fine wife, she could reshape her holding more than any perspective groom we finally decide on. This family makes no half measures." He had moved around the desk, kneeling down to take both of his wife's hands in his own. "Darling, let me do this. I'll show you what she's capable of. That's why I need to start bringing her with me to my meetings, because even with all her potential, it needs to be focused, she has to see that there is propriety in such things, even if her fine mother thinks there isn't." Bryce winked, grinning when Eleanor rolled her eyes and tried to hide a smile. "Fergus has been going with me for years, and already I can see what a teyrn he will make, but his sister isn't without talents either."_

_"Don't you think I know that? _I _am the one that labored to bring her into this world, I dare say I should already know that she's talented." Eleanor huffed again, trying to look put out so she could refuse to officially concede to her husband._

_But Bryce knew, he always knew what she was about, and he only chuckled and nodded, convinced that he'd won. "Of course, my apologies. And don't worry, she'll be back in time to help you with planning your summer party." With a flourished bow, he was gone._

_"_Salon_! Maker's breath, Bryce, it's called a _salon_!" She shouted after his retreating back, but he only waved her away. As Eleanor finally rose from her seat, she went to the window, watching her son at his sword craft. He had enough energy to make her feel weary. "_Couslands_, I'm surrounded by Couslands and they are enough to turn a woman gray before her time." She took a lock of pale gray in her hand and laughed._

_It seemed like hours she was in there, collecting herself for the plans of the day. A knock at the closed study door made her turn. Calling out, she smiled when a dark red head appeared. "Sweetheart."_

_"Mother, I just saw Papa out in the hall, he told me I ought to come speak with you." Gwyneth had her father's eyes and her father's height, but the rest of her was all Eleanor, and as she stood there in the doorway, looking young and vibrant, her mother found the similarity startling._

_"Almost eighteen, aren't we?"_

_The girl smiled, long and broad. "In two months and ten days." It dissipated, her lips thinning out into a petulant look of curiosity. "What did you need, Mama? I had one of your maids bring you my suggestions for the salon, did you not get them?"_

_"I haven't had the chance to look at them yet, and that's not why your father sent you here. I'm certain it was an attempt to lord his victory over my head." When Gwyneth only quirked an eyebrow at that, closing the door behind her, Eleanor winked conspiratorially. "When you're married, you'll understand. Husbands _live_ to vex their wives."_

_Gwyneth knew the best thing to do in such situations was to neither indulge or argue with her mother, but simply to move on. "Did you not want to see me then? I've embroidering to get back to, I'm making a cloak for Oren. All his mother has him in are these plain things, he's a Cousland, he should wear our insignia."_

_"His mother . . . you mean Oriana?"_

_"Andraste wept! Of _course_ I mean Oriana, she's the one that birthed him isn't she?"_

_"Don't you get snotty with _me_, young lady!"_

_Gwyneth sniffed, lifting her head high to show her obstinacy, but she apologized and Eleanor was too tired to point out that it didn't sound even half sincere. "Forgive me for speaking crossly, I don't know what came over me."_

_Eleanor snorted, the unladylike noise earning her daughter's surprise. "I think you very well _do_ know. You haven't cared for Oriana since Fergus married her. You know it was a good match, and her father continues to supply Highever with an ease of trade that we wouldn't have otherwise. The least you could do is refer to her by name, since you won't extend her the courtesy of an invitation to any of the teas you have with your ladies."_

_Folding her arms across her chest, Gwyneth gave a roll of her eyes, the irises narrowing in distaste. "Why should I? She's _Fergus_' wife, let _him_ entertain her. I don't think that Antivan castaway would know how to hold the cup, if I _did_ make the mistake of inviting her to an afternoon tea."_

_"Gwyneth Cousland!" At Eleanor's raised voice, she saw her daughter mellow out, and the teyrna took the opportunity to round her in. _

_"_You've_ said the same about Anora Theirin." Gwyneth's defense came with the short terseness of immaturity._

_"Pfft! Anora _Mac Tir_, you mean." Eleanor looked very much like an older version of her daughter, with arms folded over one another and eyes rolling. "Besides, that's different. Oriana may be Antivan born, but she is of four decades of high merchant lords, and now she's a Cousland."_

_"Like hell, she is!"_

_"Watch your language! I will not have any child of mine cursing like the sailors that come into port!"_

_"Oh please, I'm hardly . . ."_

_The teyrna held out a hand as Gwyneth closed her lips shut with a disagreeable snap. "I've had enough of this now, I am going to invite Oriana to our summer salon, and _you_ will be the one to show her around so she can better represent this family. Since despite your objections, she _is_ your sister, by law."_

_"Mother! You can't seriously . . ."_

_"I am _deadly_ serious, Gwyneth." A catlike smile pulled the teyrna's lips ever tighter. "In fact, since you have finally decided to be a good aunt to our little Oren, I don't see any reason why you can't invite her for me, when you deliver his cloak."_

_Gwyneth's mouth hung open, before she shut it in shock. Her eyes narrowed, as she made a show of tossing her hair over one shoulder. "Fine."_

_"Wonderful." That saccharine smile remained on Eleanor's face as she came forward to take her daughter's shoulders. "Now that we have that settled, let us get back to this matter with your father. Tell me what you think of politics."_

_She'd been ready to make a nice, angry, dramatic exit, but at that, Gwyneth paused, staring at her mother with undisguised bafflement. "Politics? It is the arena for men that can better use their tongue than any sword, and one suited to men alone, as we women stand behind them, no matter their decision, and try to steer their course in the privacy of the bedchamber."_

_"No . . that would be what _I_ told you. I want to know what _you_ think about politics."_

_A finger was pursed at the corner of her mouth. She'd never really given them much thought until just lately, when her father had been teaching her the finer points of speechcraft. "Well, to be honest, I always found them rather boring."_

_There was a sigh of relief from the teyrna. Let Bryce try and show her that Gwyneth was suited for such things, but if she wasn't interested, there would hardly be any point. She almost smiled, until after a brief pause, Gwyneth continued._

_"But, I think there is something to be said for shaping the country without bloodshed. A talented individual should be able to do so, for who are we if all we can stand behind is the sword? You've always said that this country should be capable of bringing itself out of the mire of barbarism and I agree. Papa is a strong man, as is Fergus, and they are respected for that, but what will be remembered a century from now? Their talent with sword and shield, or the thriving holding they leave behind, shaped by the politics of today? I know which of those things I would bet on, were I as involved with gambling as Thomas Howe." She smiled, thinking on the future and her place in it, as the young lady often did._

_Eleanor closed her eyes, standing before her fourth born, her miracle. After the loss of two children, she hadn't thought to bear anymore, and when Gwyneth was still in her womb, she feared everyday that she'd lose her. Yet here she was, against the odds, nearly eighteen . . . and Bryce hadn't been wrong. There was something there, in her words, a substance to them that few women would've had when speaking on matters of politics, because few noblewomen were raised to take an interest. If only she could learn to keep her temper in check and take to the finer points of diplomacy. Eleanor sighed, smiling in a way that was almost sad. Everything changes, her children, her holding, the way the world works._

_"Your father is taking you to his pierhouse meeting, he has a curiosity as to what ideas you may have. I think you should go, I think you might find an outlet for all your creativity."_

* * *

June 13'th 9:31, Dragon Age

The bedspread was covered with the unrolled map, a list of the banns of the Bannorn beside it, held down in the corners with any small items of weight that Gwyneth could find. A pomade jar, one of Alistair's stray belt buckles, a dry bar of scented soap . . . '_and my rune token?' _The king's traveling eyes landed on the stone, etched runes worn smooth by the many times he'd palmed it inside the pocket of his breeches or a winter cloak, over the years since he'd first acquired it.

"Hey!" He grabbed it, the map curling up in the corner as he waved the token in Gwyneth's face. "This is _mine_! You can't just use my things!"

"Why not? It's only to hold the edges down, now put it back on the . . ."

"No." Alistair set the token on the bedside table behind him, instead, folding long arms across a broad chest, looking just as tall and just as petulant when only wearing a pair of tan sleeping breeches and a loose muslin shirt.

"You're acting like a child." Gwyneth fixed him with a pair of narrow irises, one hand on each hip, encased in an equally loose nightdress. If anyone was to walk in on the pair of them, they'd find them not even a bit intimidating, but more like arguing siblings, and as young as Gwyneth's insult suggested.

_'He took my dolly!'_

_'She hid my wooden sword!'_

"So says the girl that went rifling through someone else's belongings as if she owned them." Alistair snorted, full mouth turned up in the right corner in purile, goading enjoyment. His nerves were worn so thin, it was a wonder he had any left at all, and it was beginning to bleed him of any mature notion he had in his head.

"Impossible, stubborn . . . " The list could've gone on, but they were wasting time, and Gwyneth threw her palms in the air, tromping over to the other side of their room, looking through the drawers of her own things. "Here." She held up a bronze shoe horn, as if it were a victory flag. "Better?" Without an answer she tossed it on the bed, the horn rolling across the map to rest against an oversized pillow.

"Temper, temper, sweetheart." He freed a hand from the curl of his arms, to wag a finger at her.

"I've told you before, I'm _not_ your _sweetheart_, now enough of this nonsense. We need to concentrate." She pressed bent knees to the stuffed mattress, a creak as the frame supported her weight when she reached across to retrieve the wayward shoe horn, planting it firmly at the corner that had been occupied by Alistair's token.

"Oh yes, so nice and _accommodating_, my fine wife. Sweet as honey, until she doesn't get what she wants." His face held that frustrating smirk, as if he knew he had the upper tier of their petty argument and meant to keep it. "I've been waiting for the _real_ Gwyneth to come back out and bite me, for days now. It's almost a relief that the waiting's over."

"Why don't you just bugger off!" She snarled, arms akimbo and pressed to the mattress as she glared up at him.

"You know what? I'd love to. I've had about all the politics I can take, and maybe I can get a good night's rest in another room." With a nod, and feeling high and free with his streak of independence, he made to walk to the door with as much swagger as he was capable of, though granted, it wasn't much.

Gwyneth moved as if she were on fire, planting herself before Alistair's only exit. "Now, wait, wait, wait. Let's not be hasty." A nervous smiled made her face go taut, her palms flat out when her husband walked into them. "I may have misspoke. I'm just tired and as frustrated as _you_ are." She was feeling in no way conciliatory or apologetic, but she desperately wanted the next day to be a success and if she could just break through to Alistair, Gwyneth was certain she could steer his course as she wanted.

"Somehow I doubt that very much." Still as stubborn as a mule, muscled arms, long and hard as iron bands, went back across his chest, but she was staring at him. Those eyes wide and pleading finally did him in, and he sighed. "Fine. Just . . . don't get so bloody worked up about it."

She nodded, letting out a sigh of relief that he was either too tired or mentally exhausted to put up more of a fight than that. "I'll try." Standing by the bed, she put an arm out, indicating and offering her map for yet another perusal. "Shall we?"

Alistair grumbled, hating the idea of the following morning and all it would entail. He'd barely kept his sanity during dinner, and Gwyneth had merrily let him squirm. Though, since she hadn't interfered, she must not have been too worried, but Alistair certainly had been, and it gave him a sour stomach that was only just now receding. "So . . . none of their wives will be there?"

"Correct. The men of the Bannorn do not take stock in the words of their wives, most men don't. You being the exception." She smirked briefly, before her face was a set piece to the concentration of her planning.

"Your father, he didn't take advice from your mother?" The question made sense to Alistair, he'd always assumed that Gwyneth's desire to be involved came from her mother. She had spoken a few times about Eleanor Cousland, trading stories during the Blight, but not enough to give anyone a clear idea of the woman. Neither had there been much talk of her father, not directly, only the greatness of her line, a topic of which Gwyneth had always been very fond of. It occurred to the young king, that despite the amount of talking and ordering around that Gwyneth did during their days of traveling together, he didn't know all that much about her.

She looked at him, long enough that he nearly went to speak again, before Gwyneth shook her head. "No, not when it came to politics. I was always taught that it was the arena of men, and those few women that _were_ involved, were the trumpet pieces for their male advisors."

"So . . . what happened, you know, with _you_?"

Gwyneth smiled, a memory of affection bringing brightness to her face. "My father saw something in me, something that went beyond my gender, maybe even beyond my name, who knows. But whatever he saw, it made him change his mind, at least where _I_ was concerned, but he still was certain to chaperone me by keeping me at his side in all the meetings I attended and I had to be coached on my words before hand so he could be assured of what I might say. I don't know that it meant he imagined _any_ female could do what I do. It is not as if _all_ women would make good politicians anymore than all _men_ do, but I think we have the mindset for it."

"You mean, devious, conniving, underhanded and stuck up? Yeah, I know a lot of women like that."

"Alistair . . ."

"Yessssss?" He trilled out, trying not to smile and failing at it.

"Clever, the word you were looking for was 'clever.'"

"Right, of course, that must have been it."

A sigh of long suffering, and she was fixing him with a dire stare again. "Would you _please_ take this seriously? I have every intention of coaching you again in the morning about what points must be addressed and when, but we need to be careful. I cannot be so involved as all that, not in public, not _this_ time. It is one thing to push for my involvement openly within the capital, and quite another to do so with the antique ideals prevalent in the Bannorn. We want to push them, but not over the edge. It is _you_ that they must see as leading the charge in there, in a matter of saying, and if I speak too much, it will not only tarnish _my_ reputation as a lady of good breeding, but also your _own_ as a strong leader."

He shook his head, clearly confused. "That doesn't make sense to me. You were willing to figure out strategies and debates during the Blight, and now that you're queen, it's all about making _me_ look like the one in control. Why is it so bad for _you_ to appear in control? When Anora was . . ."

Narrowed irises and a tighter face made Gwyneth look severe and stiff as a statue. "_Anora _was excellent with planning and calculations, but she too understood that the people must see the _men_ as being steadfast and at the front of the charging line. It was only her less than excellent skills as a wife that made everyone realize just how involved she was."

Alistair wanted to point out that it was just as much Cailan's fault for letting his wife do most of the work, while he was busy trying to make a name for himself, but he already knew her answer to that and he refrained. "Yes, but, there were a lot of people that liked her for her leadership."

"A lot of _peasants_, you mean." Gwyneth corrected, it'd been months since Anora had been killed, the rumor of her supposed suicide bought enough to give the new queen breathing room, but even now the mention of that other woman's name sent hackles up her spine. "The _nobles_ were never nearly so welcoming as they may have appeared. Remember, one can _say_ something with feigned sincerity, while thinking something _completely_ different."

Brown irises darkened with the bitterness that lay behind them, Alistair recalling all the times he'd been made to learn that hard truth. "Yeah, I'm well aware of _that_."

The queen's face softened, but she wouldn't allow her lapse of rare guilt to force her from her objective. "Look, I know you don't like this, maybe you even _hate_ it, but it's important, Alistair. Finding ways to work with the Bannorn, while guarding against those banns that we _can't_ win over, it's how you handle them, because a sword and shield will only get you so far, no matter how talented you are with them."

His shoulders sagged, and he sighed in defeat, rubbing absently at the thickening hair on his chin. "I know that. So let's just get on with it, I'm getting tired."

"Me too." She watched him, gauging his reactions and trying to tread carefully. If she were to anger him, the meeting on the morrow could be a horrendous disaster and Gwyneth feared that greatly, no matter her confident words and smirking manner. She'd never done this before, not with the Bannorn and not on her own, her father had always been there, but in the morning, Gwyneth would only have her husband as her pillar of support. "Let's try a quick exercise for memory. I'll say the name of a bann, and you name the holding, family manor, their wife and how many children they have, then lastly their political alliance to us. Ready?"

"As I'll ever be." Alistair groused.

"Alright. Lord Loren."

"What? He's not even a . . . " He gawked at her, surprised at the name, but she was persistent.

"Lord Tarquin Loren , Alistair."

"Lothering, the Loren Estate. He's not a bann yet, but will likely ask for the title, now that his father's dead. No wife, no children, one living brother, a younger one . . . ahh, Lord Zacharius. Political status, unfriendly."

She smiled encouragingly. "Very good! I _knew_ you'd have a facility for remembering names."

He scoffed at that. "Only because we've been over this more times than I can count, since you gave it to me. 'Gift' she says."

"And so it was, you'll appreciate it a lot more after tomorrow. Alright, Bann Teagan Guerrein."

"Pfft, too easy." A smile that was almost smug, graced Alistair's lips. "Rainesfere, Castle Guerrein. No wife, no children, one living brother, Arl Eamon of Redcliffe. Political status, friendly."

"Yes, that _was_ easy, but no more free shakes." She unfolded her arms to gesture down at the map again, and back up. "Bann Ruben Hascal."

"White River, White Hall. Married to Banness Reginalda. One son, Lord Warrick, one daughter, Lady Aurelia. Lord Warrick is married to Lady Marisol, no children yet. Political status, friendly." He droned out, feeling like a tranquil in the learning library of Kinloch Hold, all monotone voice and emotionless information.

"Good, good. Bann Ferrenly Strathclyde."

Alistair furrowed his brow, dark blonde nearly meeting above his eyes. "Ahhh, he's the suspected mage sympathizer?"

"_You_ tell _me_, _is_ he?"

"Gwyneth, this is silly, their names will all be announced tomorrow anyway!"

"Yes, but you need to know them by heart, you can't rely on announcements. You'll never make any ground _that_ way." She was unrelenting, a harsh taskmistress as much as she was stubborn. "Bann Ferrenly Strathclyde."

"Strathmore . . . I think, Castle Eventide. He's married to Banness Milisent. They have three sons. Lord Fletcher, Lord Braddock and Lord Fabion. They also have two daughters. Lady Priscilla and Lady Cybil. Their eldest, Lord Fletcher is married to Lady Aubrey, and they have a young son, Lord . . . Rawlin, yes? Political status, neutral."

Gwyneth shook her head. "You can't say 'I think' or ask _me_ for clarification. _You_ need to know their names and holdings."

He huffed. "Well, did I at least get them all right?"

"Yes, but pay more attention and you wouldn't have to ask. Now, Bann Osborne Pontifax."

"Is a bloated old man with two chins and a bad disposition." Alistair grinned, almost laughing at the less than savory comments Teagan had whispered to him during dinner. At Gwyneth's glare, he sobered. "Alright, alright, I'll try to be more serious. Phew! Bann Osborne Pontifax? That would be . . . Kesteven, Howling Hall. Ack! What a name. Anyway, he _was_ married to Banness Henrietta, but she passed away in childbirth, giving him his only heir, a son, Lord Willmont. Through Willmont he has no grandchildren by way of his daughter in marriage, Lady Saranel. He also has no more children with his second wife, the young Banness Victoria, who's quite pretty really, which makes it unfortunate that their political status is unfriendly." The king paused at that, smiling as he remembered the appreciative glances she'd sent him under her lashes when her husband was distracted. He hadn't been brave enough to return them, but it was pleasant to be admired, and he wasn't so guilt ridden as to not take _some_ pleasure in it.

Gwyneth sighed, pressing a palm to her forehead. "Alistair, stay on track, there's no need to elaborate so much."

"Aww, what's the matter, jealous?" He teased, finding enjoyment at putting his wife in his position, having to endure the 'admiration' of others towards one's spouse.

"_What_? No!"

"I think you're lying. Your cheeks are a bit pink."

Gwyneth failed to correct him, but her gaze could curdle milk, momentarily forgetting her notions of staying on his good side in her ever present drive to move forward. "_Stop_ trying to distract me, you aren't going to get out of this! On to the next one." She couldn't seem to wipe that damnable smirk off his face, but she was determined to make him finish. "Bann Brandon Rochforth, the Second "

"Second in importance in the Bannorn?" Alistair couldn't remember, trying like mad to access the part of his mind where he had stored all their names.

"No, second because his father was also named Brandon Rochforth before him." Gwyneth reminded, trying not to sound condescending, but it wasn't a successful attempt.

Nonetheless, Alistair went on. "He would be the Bann of Rochforth Falls, centered at Highpoint Manor. He is wed to Banness Alara. They have two young daughters, no sons. Lady Lucretia and Lady Annette. Their political status is neutral, though I think he might be friendly." At least he had seemed so at dinner, though Teagan had cautioned that the man was quick to try and benefit himself before anyone else, though as far as Alistair could tell, that was a common trait amongst the nobility.

"We can't decide that just yet. One more. Bann Burington Attenbury."

"Eastbrook, Moorland Hall. Banness Janella is his wife, and with her he has two sons, and one daughter. Lords Latham and Wyatt and the Lady Elsbeth. All are of marrying age, but haven't married yet, so no children of their own. Their political status is neutral."

Gwyneth beamed, looking as pleased with Alistair as she was with herself, though the sincerity of that couldn't be determined, but if she _wasn't_ honestly pleased, it was a good show she was putting on. "Wonderful! See? And here you were concerned that you could never memorize them. I had every confidence in you."

"Did you?" He wanted to be happy with her acceptance, if he could believe it.

"Yes, of course, why wouldn't I?"

"I can think of a few reasons, namely that you _never_ have confidence in me for _anything_." He knew his voice sounded childish, but Alistair couldn't help it, feeling the pressure of her expectations like an uncomfortable weight on his shoulders.

Hands paused in their work as she smoothed out the edges of her list, readying for the next barrage of rote exercises. "Alistair . . . " Gwyneth looked up at him, trying not to flinch at the accusation in his voice. She wouldn't lose their new alliance, not the evening before it was to be tested. "That's not true, if it was, I wouldn't have married you. I had no desire to be shackled to a brainless milksop . . . and I'm not." She winked, her footing found in charms she hadn't thought to use on Alistair until recently. Not oblivious to the tension between them, Gwyneth ignored it, in favor of the peace it maintained, a _strained_ peace at best, but they weren't fighting all out anymore, and that made it entirely worth it in her mind. "Instead I have a man who may have previously been unsuited, but he has _much_ potential for greatness."

Her words earned a scoff from him, but he couldn't help the way his lips turned up in the corners. "Does he?"

"Quite so." She watched him across the bed that separated the pair, holding his gaze long enough that the air was filled with unspoken promises, bound by the hot silver in her irises and he looked as if he wanted nothing more than to close that distance. Gwyneth had other plans, and broke the stare. "So saying, we need to move on to the next items of interest. The weaknesses of the banns, should they prove to be more of a liability than an asset to the Crown."

Alistair mumbled, but he nodded, bringing one plain carved chair over to the bed to toss himself into it, his sleeping breeches pulled taut over one muscled calf as he slung a leg over the chair arm, hands folded behind his head. The picture of relaxation when he was anything but. "Alright, hit me with your worst."

"Oooh, a challenge! I _like_ it." Gwyneth grinned like she meant it, knowing he was trying to show her that he wasn't intimidated, but she found that she didn't really care if he was, because he would function very well the next day besides. Of that she was certain beyond a doubt.

Alistair's eyes were drifting as she spoke, comparing their current quarters to the more masculine opulence of the bedchamber back at the palace. The whole room was simple, adorned with a few watercolor paintings of what Alistair assumed were landscapes, but they were too blurred in style to really tell. Teagan was very obviously a man with little female influence in his life and not enough of his own flair for decorating as a few of the banns possessed. The decorations inside were as simple as the few flower beds of orange and red nasturtiums and pale green willow trees in the main courtyard, the wooden and bleached stone a-shaped frame of the front of the castle leering down at them with peaked windows. Indoors, those same windows were framed by long plain drapes in earth tones of dark green and muted brown, pulled to the sides with bronze hooks. The furniture was similar, not quite as plain as a militia outpost, but nothing more than a person needed. Alistair found himself quite comfortable in such surroundings and that at least offered him a more conventional form of relaxation . . . perhaps _too_ much.

"Are you _listening_ to me?" Gwyneth had one hand on her hip, the other holding the list of the banns.

"What was that, Gwyn?"

She rolled her eyes, not even bothering to reprimand him. She'd found very little success in that, because he'd only repeat the same mistake anyway. "I was _saying_ that in addition to having long been allies of my father, the Hascals will be sympathetic to your sire getting you on a servant, as their son is rumored to find comfort from his dour wife in such places. So we can expect they won't try to make an issue of it, and we owe them the same courtesy by not mentioning Lord Warrick's _liaisons_ with that baker of his down by the riverside port."

Alistair felt a prickle of irritation at yet another reminder of his bastard birth, but when Gwyneth continued, he snickered. "A _baker_? So what you are saying is that _he's_ trying to put a bun in the _baker's_ oven?"

Gwyneth tried to fight off her giggle, only just managing to cover it up with a thin mouthed glare, but her mirth was showing in her eyes. "Alistair, that's _not_ funny."

"So why are you trying not to laugh?"

She ignored him, waving off his cheeky grin and pretending she wasn't amused. "Moving on. Others, apart from Teagan of course, may question your legitimacy, hedging around to avoid open insult certainly, but if they feel you won't meet all their demands they will try to guilt or shame you into their favor. When that happens, you have to know how to turn their own tactics against them. Did you read over this list last night?"

"Yes _and_ this morning. Gwyneth, I barely have room in there to remember my own _name_, with everything you've got me memorizing." He knocked lightly against his skull with a curled fist for effect. "See? It's not even hollow enough to echo anymore."

She snorted, once again fighting the urge to chuckle. "Must you be such a ninny?"

He shrugged, wanting to find out if he could get under her skin even half as much as _she_ was getting under _his_. "I wouldn't be as interesting if I wasn't. You'd rather I be an ole' stick in the mud?"

"No, I'd rather you take my words into honest consideration, because your meeting tomorrow is . . ."

"_A very serious matter_." Alistair mimicked, mocking his wife's high bred tone. "Yes, yes, I know."

"But you _don't_ know, if you _did_, you wouldn't be so flippant. You are a warrior and before that you were a templar in training, and in nearly three months as king, you still cannot get used to the idea that sometimes hard labor and sword craft can't always win you the day. Yet how did you think I succeeded, during the Blight, in winning over our allies and making them honor their agreements with the Wardens?"

"Honestly? I thought 'good' King Bhelen was entranced with your long legs, its not like he sees much of those in Orzammar." He grinned and she glowered. "Look, I'm not an idiot, I know it took verbal negations to build the army we had at our backs, but I'm no good at any of that. Not like _you_ are, and no matter whose names I remember, or what weakness they have, it isn't going to suddenly make me a master manipulator. Isn't that what _you're_ here for anyway, why you married me? To keep my foot out of my mouth?" Alistair griped, dangling his arms at either sides of the chair to gesture in her direction.

"No, it isn't and you know it. I'm here to assist you, to educate you, and tutor you in the ways of leadership by way of political planning. I can't be your voice, not _all_ the time, you have to prove that you have the capability for that yourself, and if you'd just take your head out of your ass, you would realize that you are in fact, capable!" She all but screeched at him, driven mad by his innate talent for mulishness.

"Well! Why don't you tell me how you really feel!" He settled back in the chair, looking grumpy and put out, shifting in trepidation when Gwyneth smiled at him, a predatory look that had his nerve endings firing off. When she came around to his side of the bed, hands curled at the ends of the chair arms, leaning close enough that he could catch a whiff of her scented lotions, he felt the desire to jump out of the chair.

"Tomorrow night you'll know exactly how I feel, after your victory and the reward that follows." She kept that smile in place, leaning back on the mattress so she was sitting across from him.

"W-what reward?" He croaked out.

"You'll see . . ." An unspoken promise that she let hang in the air, before she was off on her informational tirade again. "Now, do you recall what I told you about Lord Tarquin's brother?"

"That he has a fondness for young stable hands? Yes, and it's disgusting, someone should turn him in!" That idea was enough to consume all his thoughts.

Gwyneth nodded, looking solemn. "Oh, of a surety, but without proof, any accusation made against a nobleman seems petty and the people that support the Lorens will not come around to the idea unless they think him guilty beyond a reasonable doubt. Nonetheless, it provides us with an opportunity." She was careful with her words, Alistair's brows furrowed in suspicion. "In knowing this, we have a weakness revealed, a point to strike if Tarquin pushes too hard. I say we give him the title he wants, it's harmless enough a request, even though he is under the mistaken impression that it will give him more authority with the survivors of Lothering. You and I both know that the serfs under the late Bann Madoc Loren were disquieted by his abandonment of them, to seek his own glory at Loghain Mac Tir's side. Under Arl Bryland, by the guiding and steadfast hand of Lord Lothien, the people have their champions and Tarquin shall be hard pressed to win them over with a title. Of course, we won't point this out to him, letting him continue to believe himself more assured in success than he is, shall keep him mellowed on that score. I'm unsure of any further demands he might make, but I spoke with him at dinner, and I suspect he is going to ask for the Crown to offer aid towards finding a bride for him. Tarquin will be anxious to assert himself as the new Bann of Lothering and married status shall certainly assist him. I'm hesitant to foist any young lady on him, with that area in such turmoil still, and yet I think if we push for him to marry Bann Attenbury's daughter, Elsbeth, it may prove a good match."

The young king shook his head at even the idea of making marriage alliances. "Why do _we_ have to be the ones to find matches? Isn't that between the banns themselves?"

"You've seen how well they get along."

"Well, yeah, there is _that,_ I suppose. Did Cailan have to do this too?" The mention of his brother would've typically been quite touchy, but between the both of them, the mixed anxiety and excitement seemed to make his late brother's name an easier thing to speak of.

"Occasionally, when it was proving to be a great matter of contention. Though usually such matches were overseen by the teyrn of that region, and now the only teyrn this country has is my brother, and until the retaking of Highever is confirmed, he's not exactly going to have a lot of spare time."

"That makes sense." Alistair nodded, thinking about his own conversations at dinner. "You know, you're right. Elsbeth might be a good match. I was talking to her father and he said something about wanting to re-negotiate the borders of his holding. I'm sure he wasn't talking about Lothering, but it _would_ give him an interest in the area, with his daughter as the new banness. If any rebuilding is going to be successful, I think Lothien needs more help, and if Bann Attenbury had an alliance with Lord . . . excuse me, _Bann_ Loren, then I don't see why he wouldn't want his daughter's new holding to flourish."

Gwyneth's thin lips pulled up in both corners, her eyes gleaming with approval. "Yes, that's very good, Alistair. Though we should let _them_ bring up any matters of matrimony, but it certainly is a worthwhile solution to at least one issue. Then after things have settled, we can see about doing something to address Lord Zacahrius' deviant behavior. I really don't care for having that kind of liability in the Bannorn."

"What about Bann Pontifax? You have him listed as hostile as well, and there's really no hope of negotiating a marriage contract with _him _to ease his associations with the other banns." Alistair's wrinkled face was proof of his distaste. "Unless we make an arrangement for his son . . . didn't he recently lose his wife?"

Gwyneth nodded. "Mmm, yes, consumption I believe. Though the Pontifax line is nearly infamous for their lack of potency, that's one of their sore points, and has been for centuries, or so my father once told me. Being faced with one's own demise is trying enough, but add to that the ending of a man's line and he is not unlike a wolf trapped in a corner, angry and snarling, desperate for a solution. I dare say that Osborne isn't likely to get any children on his second wife, not at _his_ age, and so the continuation of the line will be the responsibility of Lord Willmont, most certainly. Taking the lack of potency into account, whatever bride he takes should be from a family that has proven to be fertile."

"Blech!" He made a note of disgust. "I can't believe we're actually talking about impotency and fertility."

The queen only shrugged. "Well, you'd better get used to it, such things are common place when deciding on political matches."

Alistair cleared his throat, obviously embarrassed about his next question, but unable to keep himself from asking. "Did . . . uh . . . did Eamon talk to _you_ about that?"

"My fertility? No, but then I assume that he already knew the Cousland line was a fertile one, in most respects. Since neither of us have offered him the truth concerning Wardens and pregnancy, he has no reason to suspect otherwise. Which is going to be a concern later on, but right now, let us worry about the task at hand."

"Fine by me." He wasn't all that fussed about discussing getting Gwyneth pregnant anyway, and even less so when it added to his already prominent discomfort. "So, Teagan was telling me that Kesteven has always been a holding that causes trouble, fighting with the other banns and sometimes to the point of physical battles. If they are so violent, why do they still have a holding at all?"

"Mostly because no one else wants Howling Hall for themselves, it sits up on the tallest knoll in the Bannorn, the wind always whipping through there . . . hence where it got its name. It isn't the best land for farming or to raise sheep and other herds. Their mainstay is in coal, there are three mines situated around Kesteven and Osborne has been hiring all the misplaced locals he can, those desperate for coin after the Blight took everything from them. He pays about ten percent of his earnings out in wages to avoid being labeled as a slaver, and makes a killing by selling the coal to any merchants that pass into the Bannorn by way of the southeast road. It burns well and long, favored by craftsmen and armorers, but its a dirty business mining it, and quite dangerous, or so I'm told. So no one has wanted Kesteven enough to fight him over it, and he always manages to retreat into a peace contract with the fights that he _himself_ has started, before anyone _too_ important is killed."

Alistair scratched his head at that. "How did you come by all this information anyway?"

"Some of Father's old contacts that are still friendly towards the Couslands and have been taking refuge in Denerim. You didn't really think I wasted away my free time with afternoon teas every day did you?" Gwyneth winked. "As far as his recent hires, Reginalda Hascal gave me quite the bit of information shortly after dinner, before asking me about when my brother might be thinking of remarrying of course."

"Why would she want to know _that_? Doesn't she know that he's still retaking Highever?"

"Apparently she assumed he'd have met with complete success by now, but I bear her no ill will. She's a good woman, a friend to my mother, and her daughter Aurelia was my best friend before all . . . this . . . happened. I imagine that Reginalda is hoping Aurelia might become the new Teyrna of Highever. It's certainly bound to be a highly sought after station, once the rest of the country gets its feet back beneath itself."

Alistair curled his mouth unpleasantly. _'These people are always so ready to step over someone's cooling corpse, to take their place. Teyrn Cousland's wife and son were murdered, and already someone's ready to take advantage_!' He wanted to speak the thought aloud, but he had a suspicion that Gwyneth wouldn't approve, or that too many mentions of her brother would put her in a melancholic mood. Despite wishing that he didn't, Alistair needed her if he had any hope of not making a complete ass out of himself the next day.

Gwyneth was happy enough to continue. "At any rate, she gave me some very useful information, but I still don't know what Bann Pontifax may request of the Crown and we should be careful not to let him push us into anything, because we aren't sure what he's up to."

"I don't know how you do all this, Gwyn, I really, _really_ don't." He shook his head in disbelief, rubbing a palm over his eyes.

She only shrugged again, smiling briefly. "One day and then the next, and being prepared certainly helps. Don't worry, someday this won't all seem so foreign to you." Wynne's words came back to her, surprisingly clear in her mind as it was adrift with thoughts of the following day.

_A sigh from the queen and a much rarer honesty. "I'm not 'playing' him per se. It's important that _no one_can so easily convince him to forsake me. I just want him to feel . . . as if we've formed a bond."_

_It was Wynne's turn to sigh, in exasperation. "For Maker's sake, Gwyneth, then actually _do_ so!"_

There had been much said, during that last tea with the beloved mage, but that one line of advice had stood out and stayed with Gwyneth, though she hadn't found the right way to use it before. Now, she found herself grinning. '_I intend to_.'

* * *

The floor was chilled with the dampness of a night in the moorlands, where even high summer could do little to remove the cold mist that rolled into its deepest valleys when the sun went down. Alistair gritted his teeth together as he stuck his feet out of the blankets and the bare bottoms of them touched the cold wood. He was trying to make himself get out from under the comfort of clean sheets, warmed by his own body heat, but that cozy cocoon of warmth was more seductive to his tired mind than he would've expected. After a night of tossing and turning, anxiety making the Fade of Dreams fall on him slowly, he wasn't any happier about getting up.

He tucked his long form back under the blankets, vowing that he'd make himself get up and about in five more minutes.

A whimper beside him made him turn his head, rich brown irises gone wider in surprise to find that Gwyneth was still in bed. She had usually been the first one up, grumbling about it, but up by the time he'd only begun to rouse himself, nonetheless. At first he thought she must have been talking to him, waking at the same time, but after listening, her words were more in the vein of someone sleeping. She wriggled farther down under the sheet and the quilted coverlet, everything but her closed eyes and that head of cinnamon ringlets, hidden in her own little warm nest.

"Mmm, chilly." She murmured, body curled up beside his, and Alistair smiled, though he wasn't certain why.

There was something about watching her without her devious mind working at him, just laying there and looking for all the world like a young girl with a head full of fluff and dreams about ponies, or whatever other nonsense young ladies dreamt about. It was easier to enjoy Gwyneth's company when she wasn't talking.

He reached out to one of her long curls, spilled out across the linen of the pillow like an unruly ribbon, tugging at it to rouse her, but she only murmured again. The feel of it between his thumb and forefinger was soft and smooth, and he found himself trying to unravel it, only to watch it curl back up, as stubborn as its owner.

"Huh? W-what's . . ." She mumbled, turning over onto her side, as Alistair drew his hand back as if it was about to be bitten off. Her eyes came open slowly, sleep still sitting in them as she finally registered his presence next to her. "Oh, you're up. How long?"

"Just a few minutes. I didn't really want to get out of bed."

"That's understandable. Andraste's tits but it's chilly in here! It's June, it has no business being cold. Damned moorlands."

Alistair chuckled at her language.

"What's so funny?"

"Miss priss, charm and manners, slaying there cussing like a tavern wench."

Gwyneth wrinkled her brow, making a rude gesture with the middle finger of her hand, which only amused Alistair more. She worked her body up from under the covers, not unlike a wriggling inch worm, until she was sitting, arms curled about herself before she stretched them over her head. "You shouldn't concern yourself, I'll be ever so much the lady this afternoon."

He groaned, following suit as he grudgingly dragged his lethargic form out of bed and towards the wardrobe. "It's really _that_ day, isn't it? Do you think if I close my eyes, and wish really hard, that the banns will decide they all love each other and they are perfectly happy and there's no need for a meeting, that it will work?"

Gwyneth smirked at that, shaking her head before she stumbled her way towards the dressing screen, sleepy feet dragging every step of the way. "No, I'm quite sure it won't."

"Well, it was worth a try." He shrugged out of his shirt, tossing it haphazardly over the back of a tall wooden chair. His teeth came to together in a brief hiss, as the air hit his naked chest. After a moment to adjust he was reaching for the pile of clothes Gwyneth had picked out the evening prior. "Red?"

"We wore blue yesterday, red is a good conflict choice."

"Conflict alright, isn't red a fighting color?"

"Alistair . . . you do recall we were _married_ in red and gold, don't you?" The grin of humor was prevalent in her voice and she made no effort to disguise it from her side of the screen, watching the shadowed outline of his form through the slats of the wood. He still cut a fine figure, and though she wasn't likely to tell him so, she enjoyed the tease of that shape from the secrecy provided by the screen.

A pause and then he was grinning at himself and his lack of clear thinking in the mornings. He suspected this would be the only time he wasn't almost crippled with anxiety, and the king made an effort to infuse some humor of his own to take the edge off. "Oh, right. I'd almost forgotten we were _actually_ married, I thought I was just so taken with you after a night of too much drinking that I'd decided you should be my new royal mistress. I bet the Bannorn would love that. Gwyneth Cousland, mistress to King Alistair, the bastard."

"I'd sooner hang myself."

Her delivery was so dry and serious that he started laughing. "That's not what you said last night, as you were professing your undying love."

"_What_?" She let out a squawk of undignified disbelief.

"Oh, look at that. I must be getting better at the deception _you_ favor, you actually took me seriously." He sobered, grin falling to a straight, staid line as he continued dressing. "Don't worry, I expect to be swallowed by Thedas before _that_ would ever happen." There was no response, so she probably agreed with him, and he sighed. "Why are we dressing ourselves? I thought you'd be even more intent on having servants for that, since you are so keen on making an impression."

"It would be nice to have assistance, that's true, but we didn't bring servants and I'm not about to ask your knights. Pitching up a screen if need be? Yes. Helping me get dressed? Definitely, no. Teagan doesn't have the servants to spare, and so here we find one another. I can get everything mostly, you'll have to help me with tightening the stays in the back though . . . why do you ask? Do _you_ need some help?"

Her voice and her offer both sounded innocent enough, but even for his manic good humor of the morning, there remained that warning at the back of his mind that told him she wasn't to be trusted. _'But last night, even though she got frustrated, she helped me, didn't she? She was honestly pleased by my input, isn't that so?'_ Alistair's psyche didn't answer, and he found his throat had tightened on a response. "Ah . . . n-no that's alright, I'm . . . well I can do it myself." He nearly jumped out of his skin when he felt her fingers at his elbows, standing behind him in a shift and a half unbound underpinnings.

"No, I _should _be helping you. After all, remember what I told you?"

"What would that be, Gwyn? You tell me a _lot_ of things."

"Don't try to be cute." She scolded at his back, delivering a light slap where her fingers were already working at the network of golden cord to connect the arms of his doublet to the mock-shelled shoulder. Gwyneth found herself smiling at the memory, eyes intent on her work. "The day of your coronation. I believe you were quite incensed with your own manservant and the task of finishing clothing you fell to me. You were having an absolute _fit_ about your 'itchy' vest. I told you that it was a sign of respect for a wife to help dress her husband."

"Oh, right, that seems vaguely familiar." He reached over his shoulder to put a hand over hers, to pause its movements, turning his head at an angle to look at her, catching her questioning gaze. "_Do_ you Gwyn? Do you respect me?"

Her lips pulled up in the right corner, just enough to create a smirk. "Today, I think I most definitely will, and so will the other banns if you are able to maintain the lackadaisical charm you've been displaying this morning. Though you might want to avoid a lot of jokes, a few will settle the mood, too many shall make you look the jester, and that's a part I don't think you are suited for. Not anymore."

Alistair shook his head, fingers curling over her knuckles to grip them tight, making her pay attention instead of shirking him off with some clever rejoinder. "I'm serious."

"So am I."

"No, Gwyneth, I mean do _you_ respect me? _Honestly_? Last night and the trip from Amaranthine, you've been . . . well I don't know what you've been and it makes me nervous. I . . . I want to walk into the meeting today knowing that you are really, truly, honestly on my side. So, _are _you? Are you with me, Gwyneth?" It was an old question, asked in the great hall after a victorious Landsmeet that saw Loghain on the floor in defeat and Alistair's sword poised above him.

Gwyneth nodded, turning her hand so she could curl her fingers with his, holding the larger palm in her own grasp. Her answer was the same as it had been then. "I have _always_ been with you."

"But you haven't. You aren't with me when we're fighting, or when you try to turn your wiles on me or anything else you want to use." Instead of sounding angry, Alistair just sounded defeated, as if the truth in those statements was as true a burden as a cross born on one's shoulders. "I mean, what is it we're doing here? What is it that _you're _doing?"

"My duty, of course. What am I without my duty?" It was an honest question, her brow curved and raised above her eye, holding his gaze but somehow seeing past it.

"You're my wife." His answer was simple, but all that he meant in those three words felt more complicated than the tactics he'd learned to use with the Bannorn. He watched her face for a reaction, but there was nothing but that blank calculating stare, because Gwyneth never just listened, she planned around her response.

In the stables of Amaranthine he'd stupidly kissed her, moved to do so by some faint wisp of the fragile friendship that had died on the marriage altar, but there was nothing from her. No reaction. At the ruins, watching her wash in the rain, there should have been embarrassment. Alistair certainly was, but Gwyneth just winked, as if egging him on and then . . . nothing yet again. Always _nothing_, always a retreat back to her precious 'duty', but was it truly a retreat or was that how she felt? A hollow blackness, devoid of emotion, for anything but her convictions of duty, family honor, power, prestige and planning, there consistently remained her planning, closer to her side than even her beloved Noble.

He went to speak at her, command something from Gwyneth, a response, an argument, anything but that empty staring. Someone was knocking at the door, and his opened mouth clamped shut as Gwyneth's hand slid from under his, walking towards the intruder on the other side. _'Damn it!_'

"Yes?"

"Pardon, Highness, but Bann Teagan sent me and two other ladies. We're typically in the kitchen gardens, and we're a little hard pressed here at Castle Guerrein, but His Lordship didn't want you to have Your Majesties attend yourselves." The older female voice came through the wood, perhaps not because of any strength in the tone, but for the fact that the wood was thin.

Gwyneth grinned over one shoulder at Alistair, earning a half hearted smile in return. "Maybe your uncle is a mind reader. That'd certainly be an asset today." Then to the women standing in the hall as she opened the door. "Come in, come in, we haven't much time, but the assistance is _most_ appreciated. Isn't that right darling?"

The falseness of the endearments they gave each other in public had never bothered him more than as an annoyance, one more on the list of grievances against his cold, distant and confusing bride. That morning however, it almost hurt, and he tried not to wince when he nodded. "Yes, my dear, very timely."

* * *

"And we should believe the word of a man that hides _apostates_ in his wine cellar? It is little wonder to me that the templars haven't burned your castle to the ground!" Osborne Pontifax struggled to get to his feet, planting meaty feasts on the long table. "You are lucky someone hasn't put you in your place before now!"

Ferrenly Strathclyde was no young man himself, approaching his sixties with a bit of grace and some overeating, but he was smaller than Osborne and not without his own bite. "_Lucky_? And what, _you_ would force your justice down upon my head? Don't pretend your authority as a man is anything but meager! You can't even get a son on your charming little wife, not with that bent percy you've squashed inside a stuffed codpiece! Is it any mystery that many say the young banness finds her amusements with your son? Though one should tell her that all you Pontifaxs have to beg on your knees for a miracle to deliver you from your impotence!"

"How _dare_ you suggest my darling Victoria is anything but faithful!" The man's face was red and enraged, spittle on his lips and murder in his eyes.

"I'm more than _suggesting_, you fat piece of shit! To imagine her horror to watch your rotund body ambling towards her, perched lips for a kiss more like the dying mouth of a fish from Ruben's river!" Strathclyde raged right back, fists curled and pressed into the wood so hard the knuckles were white.

"Hey now, ease back Ferrenly, and leave me out of this!" Ruben Hascal put his hands up, both men turning their hot glares on him.

"A coward as always! Why don't you slink back to feet of our queen, laving them with your tongue, since you fucking Hascals have always been lickspittles to the Couslands!" Osborne had temporarily forgotten his hatred for one man, only to replace it for another.

"Here! Gentlemen, I must ask again that we all calm down and speak like _civil_ adults." Alistair, like the other banns in the room had watched the banns of Kesteven and Strathmore rage against each other, for what seemed like a rehash of the same argument they'd had not even five minutes after all of them had filed into Teagan's modest meeting hall. The room was packed and seemed choked with the air of too many bodies and the uncomfortable aura of mongering discontent.

Gwyneth sat beside him, hands folded at the edge of the table and neck gone taut. It was clear she was biting her tongue, but whether for Alistair's benefit or her own, he couldn't be sure. True to her words and her plans, she'd remained a silent figure beside him, offering only a tidbit here or there and leaving Alistair to the words she'd coached him on. Yet he'd taken a few liberties and she hadn't balked just yet. She raised a brow at him, tilting her tightly braided head ever so slightly in Osborne's direction.

Alistair cleared his throat, turning his eyes on the man. "You will show your queen the respect she is due, as you will also show _me_ respect. I don't rightly care if you like us or not, I _am_ your sovereign lord."

Osborne scoffed, settling his weight back down in the chair. "I'll give you the respect you _deserve_." It was clearly meant to be a thin insult, but the man's irises widened when the king seemed to take it differently.

"Yes, I imagine you _will_, as an honorable man of good breeding, as we all have to be in these trying times." Alistair even had the audacity to smile, and Bann Pontifax, looking put out, only nodded.

He'd been fair to certain that this new king was going to be a joke of a man, like his brother and father before him, moved to severity only by those more severe who stood beside him. Osborne had been positive that the young man's ferocity at the Landsmeet had only been a puppet's repetition of his betrothed's words. Yet, he seemed to have a hardness to his personality that Bann Pontifax hadn't been expecting, and he found himself unsure if it was genuinely his or his wife's.

Across the way, Bann Strathclyde did the same, shifting around in his seat as if some of his anger that remained was making him too anxious to sit still. Beside him, Bann Hascal went to speak, but at a small shake of Gwyneth's head, he kept his silence.

Alistair was finally able to continue. "Now then, I think we were discussing the bannorns along the moorland's western side, and their slighted ability to trade with Kinloch Hold. I know all of you have heard by now that I once was training to be a templar, but if any of you were hoping that meant I have increased ties to the chantry, and by effect, the authority within the mages circle, I'm afraid you'll be disappointed. I never actually _became _a templar and those ties are tenuous at best."

"If they are so _tenuous_, how do you hope to contain any further threats to this Bannorn by attacks from rogue mages, then? By and large, the templar force was greatly reduced by the tragedy that occurred there." Brandon Rochforth was in his early thirties, having asserted himself as his father's heir to Rochforth Falls at the beginning of his own rule of that holding, marrying soon after and having already produced two children. Though both were girls and the potency of his seed would remain in question until Banness Alara gave birth to a son. He'd been a mostly silent presence in the meeting so far, watching others speak and thinking on his own concerns. With his keep the nearest to Kinloch Hold, but the same distance to the actual docks as Strathmore, attacks from apostates and maleficarum was a consistent worry now that the Blighted war had been ended.

"The mages that died there, as well, defending the only home they had, was that not also a tragedy, Brandon? You're father might have said so." Bann Strathclyde folded his hands and narrowed his eyes on the younger bann.

"My _father_ isn't here, _I_ am, and you'd do well to remember, old man, that not everyone is so quick to harbor illegal mages." Bann Rochforth returned, voice low and keyed.

Ferrenly snorted. "There isn't any proof of that, and if I were indeed harboring fugitives, don't you think someone would've seen them before now? Pfah! Rumor and gossip. Would you listen to such things, like an old fishwife, Brandon? Simply because I have a care for those who were born to be such and had no choice in the matter, I am labeled as a sympathizer of murderous mages and roustabouts, is that it?"

"It might not be if your cousin wasn't one such mage. I do wonder how many of your children might have the affliction, they are all of an age now, and can secret away their own 'gifts' as you would call them." Tarquin Loren, who's request for the title of his late father's bannorn had been accepted early into the meeting, cleared his throat, not wanting his silence afterwards to make him seem gutless.

"I don't believe anyone asked for the opinion of some backwater refugee of a traitorous bann's son! Especially one who fled the bannorn he now asks for, at the first sign of trouble!" Ferrenly snarled, mouth curled and showing his teeth like an angry cat would bare to another tom in fighting over a female, though with the banns it was always supremacy that they attacked each other for.

Loren stood, livid at that, pointing a stabbing finger towards the older man. "You rat bastard! Safe here in the north of the Bannorn, where the Blight only _breathed_ on your home! Sheep still graze here, families yet live and the land still yields crops. You didn't have to see the darkspawn devour _your_ lands or slaughter _your_ people, did you? _Did you_? Well _I_ did, as I fled to protect all the family I had left."

Before Ferrenly could respond, Gwyneth was standing, the presence of a woman at a Bannorn meeting making the men edgy. They'd almost forgotten about her, the woman's silence lending itself to that, but they paid attention now, both arguing banns found company as the other men all stood, a habit of gentlemen when ladies rose from their seats. In that at least, they were united.

"Good banns, I ask all of you to recall that it was my husband that saved us from having to suffer anymore at the hands of those monsters. The threat still is not yet gone, but it is through his continuing actions towards peaceful solutions and well thought out alliances that Amaranthine will become a holding point for a new vanguard against the threats we face from the darkness beneath us. All of us have been touched by this evil, and the scars we bear are beyond what anyone can see or heal." She looked solemn and melancholy, keeping her voice low and creating just the slightest hitch as if she would burst into tears at any moment. Such was what kept the men quiet as she spoke. "Yet, we all came together, mage, templar, noble, commoner, to protect this country that every single one of us calls home. It pains me to see that such alliances are broken at the first sign of clear waters, when they are not yet _cleared_ at all. Still a threat remains to this country and we rail at each other, refusing to find why we ever came together. A wise man once said that we all see things differently, and why shouldn't we? Because we _aren'_t the same, and yet it is those differences that make us who we are. So why can't we all just find a way to use those differences to better our country, instead of bolstering only ourselves?"

Osborne smirked cruelly. "Was it perhaps your father, Your Majesty, that offered such a 'wisdom'? It hardly seems fitting, seeing what fate _he_ met."

Gwyneth narrowed her irises at the man, but held her calm, putting a hand on Alistair's shoulder, and all but beaming down at him as if she were a woman enamored. "Not at all, Bann Pontifax, and I think you should find it _very_ fitting, since such a wise man was not my father, but my husband."

Burrington Attenbury leaned over to Brandon Rochforth, conspiratorially whispering in his ear. "_You see? This is why women make poor politicians, far too sentimental for my tastes_."

Brandon nodded, clearing his throat, and despite his agreement with Attenbury, he said nothing of that to the queen. "Majesty, I apologize for my own shamed behavior, and shall endeavor to listen more thoroughly and interrupt less."

Osborne Pontifax laughed under his breath. "_That's bloody unlikely_." He only smiled condescendingly when Brandon sent him a sharp look.

Gwyneth nodded, taking a seat while Alistair held her hand to kiss her knuckles.

"Thank you, sweetheart." He paused, knowing she disliked that endearment more than any of the other false ones they would lay on each other, correcting him both times he'd used it, but she couldn't very well complain _now_. Alistair fought a cheeky grin when her face twitched, wanting to say something, but she only gave him a tight little smile when he let her hand go to watch it fold back over the other as if she'd never moved at all. "I'm honored that my wife remembers what I say, as we all know how women can be." He did grin then, a lulling laughter filling the room.

"Back to trade agreements with the tower, I say that why should their business go to independent merchants since many of our bannorns can supply what they need? In a quicker time frame as well. Too long have I watched as those damn hawkers out of Jader come down the Imperial Highway, just outside my holding, bringing their stinking cheeses and too dry meats. Half the year we can supply reasonably fresh mutton and the cheese made from goat's milk is better than the over seasoned rubbish they bring in from Nevarra." Ferrenly Strathclyde cleared his throat, eager to get back to negotiations that would see Strathmore richer.

"Being only if they are _your_ goats and _your_ sheep, isn't that right Strathclyde?" Bann Rochforth sneered.

"A moment ago you were whining about being protected from the _big bad mages_, I have my doubts that you'd willingly enter trade negotiations with Kinloch Hold."

"I wasn't whining, and Knight-Commander Greagoir is a reliable sort, I would most definitely be willing and able to enter negotiations with _him_."

"So why haven't you, then?"

Alistair shook his head, exasperated with how these men could get into arguments as easily as he could breathe. To his left, Teagan intervened, worried that his adopted nephew's patience was wearing quite thin.

"Perhaps, we can all figure out what our best assets are, honestly, and put them forward so you can each benefit from increased trade. I know it usually takes precedence at ports, and not so much near landlocked holdings, but we're all either near a river or a lake, and closer to the trade routes that we shouldn't be left out."

The king nodded, grateful for Bann Guerrein's input. "I see no reason why the Crown can't assist you in new trade deals, so long as _all_ of you are willing to participate."

"I have nothing to offer them. Mages and their watchdogs have little use for coal, and I have no desire for further trade. I make more than enough already, and when the bannorn passes to my son, so too will my fortune. So there is also no need to secure my heir's future. Though I imagine Willmont should need a new bride soon." Osborne waved out a heavily ringed hand, gesticulating carelessly as if to prove his lack of regard for such trade.

"Don't expect me to offer my Priscilla to you." Ferrenly sneered, aged face pulled tighter for his vicious mood.

"I wouldn't accept an offer from your magic pissing family on my life!" He returned, just as sourly.

_'Good Lord! No wonder neither Maric and Cailan could never settle the Bannorn, they probably couldn't get a word in edgewise_!' Alistair sighed heavily, throwing his palms in the air. "Enough!" Beside him, Gwyneth tensed, putting one hand around his arm, alarmed that he was going to step out of bounds and exacerbate the problem. He patted her hand in reassurance as he stood, despite her whispering objection. "I can barely keep my own peace of mind with the lot of you tearing each other apart! You moan about how nothing ever gets solved in the Bannorn, that the Crown has forgotten about you. Arl Eamon has received countless letters as my steward from your holdings, with very similar complaints, and yet, how _can_ anyone help you? You aren't even willing to help _yourselves_, and the Maker as my witness I am not leaving this damned room until every last bann here has agreed to concise trade with Kinloch Hold, Amaranthine, Highever, Denerim and Lothering. The mages circle has been decimated, as have the cities I named, the capital chief among them. Lothering is all but destroyed and I would see it flourish enough that our new Bann Loren can prove that his interest in that bannorn goes beyond his family name. If you want anything from me, you need to give me something in return."

The speech was angry, passionate, and nothing that Gwyneth had told him to say. She sat back in her chair, shocked, looking up at the man she married with an awe she'd never felt towards him before. Her face was tinged with red at the excitement for the strong figure he presented, and her moment of speechlessness seemed to be shared, until Bann Pontifax blustered.

"_Concise_ trade? Concise trade! There hasn't been any _concise_ trade in this country since before Brandel the Defeated lost it to the Orlesians!"

"I dare say there hasn't been a need for it as much as there is now. We're a weakened country and we need as much local national trade as we can manage." Teagan nodded, looking proud of his nephew, but wise enough to try and ease away from the young man's anger, putting a hand at his elbow until Alistair had sat back down, breathless from his explosion.

"And the increased taxation that we'd have to pay for such agreements, as a percentage of our own profits from such a deal? You find there is a 'need' for _that _as well, Guerrein? Your family never did give a flying fig for how much anyone _else_ had to pay towards the Crown." The older bann growled, but his anxiety wasn't his alone.

Bann Loren cleared his throat, worried brows meeting above his eyes. "Your Majesty would have Lothering enter into this agreement when my holding is already in a state of disrepair? Others may assist us, but how can _I_ hope to assist _anyone_. Lothering has nothing, and won't for some time, and certainly not enough in our coffers to pay excise taxes to the Crown."

"I've been there, Bann Tarquin, I've seen all the aid that bannorn needs, but you are wrong to think you can offer nothing. I am in talks to cede Ostagar to the Dalish, in return for the guardianship of the ruins against further infestations and their willingness to trade clan-made items with local villages, Lothering high on that list. Once they've settled in, you can expect at least some manner of income from them. In the mean time, I'm willing to grant you amnesty from collections until which point in time trade begins to flow. Arl Bryland of South Reach will cover the cost of your lack of tax payment. Later you will repay _him_ by offering your holding as a place to tutor his children and any younger relatives in the ways of the Dalish, as you will be operating as an official chancellor between them. My queen tells me your mother was very fond of Dalish lore and instilled the same fondness in you, so it seems your interests would be in kind." Alistair offered, calmed by the recitation of Gwyneth's coaching. It felt good to speak his own mind, but after the energy expended in doing so, it was nice to fall back on a ready made plan.

Bann Ruben Hascal bowed his head, smiling at the queen before he turned his gaze to the king. "White River would be most willing to agree to concise trade, in exchange for compensations so the rest of the Bannorn can use our port. It's the only dock in the moorlands, and situated at the lake mouth of the river, running all the way to Waking Sea. I'm well acquainted with Corvus Hargreve and negotiating for open shipping by way of the convenient placement of his own bannorn, wouldn't be difficult, I can't imagine. I could actually use your coal, Osborne. My headman has a nephew that is a bit of a genius at invention and has drawn up plans for a furnace that runs on steam. Quite evolutionary, I'm sure we'd all agree, and I think coal might be just the thing."

"That's it then? We're all just going to lie down and pay this tax?" Osborne glowered.

"Considering, Bann Pontifax that you have already claimed that you are well in coin, and your current coal trade is flourishing, you should be the bann with the least to say against this. Unless you have some other reason for not wanting to make changes that will keep you in the goodwill of your king?" Gwyneth smirked for just a few seconds, long enough that the bann in question noticed. "Perhaps you do not care for the idea that concise trade requires you to make official and shared documentation of just how many miners you have working to bring you the coal you are so proud of, and what their wages are?"

"I have nothing to hide!" He snorted, folding his arms petulantly against the top of his robust belly.

"Then you agree with this arrangement?" Alistair took the initiative, watching the man like a hawk ,until he huffed.

"What do I get in return? There's not a man in this room that would trade with me, they all hide away their assets in their own holdings!" He continued to grouse.

Bann Burington Attenbury spoke up, his first long statement of the meeting. "_I_ would, Osborne. I know you haven't been able to get very much in the way of fresh meats for your household, Victoria was complaining prior to dinner that she was growing tired of salted stews. I haven't any cows or sheep, and I don't think anyone is so desperate to eat horse meat, but Eastbrook is on the Wending River and I have a decent supply of fresh fish. The trout this season are surprisingly large, and would pack well in chilled river rocks, the short distance between my keep and your own, with only some light salting for preservation. Janella believes that the eating of fish and fish eggs improves a woman's fertility, which should be something of interest to any bann seeking to enlarge his family. She's given me two sons and a daughter, all within years of each other, I have no reason to doubt her."

Bann Pontifax nodded but looked suspicious. "What do _you_ want from _me_ in return? You have no need for coal for any inventions as Ruben claims, surely."

"Not at all, I would however like a piece of your Knot Hill to build another fishing lodge, since it sits right near the Drakon River. We can both make use of it as the season picks up enough to supply both our keeps with fresh fish, being of equal distance between us. In trade we can sell what is caught in high summer to the smaller villages around us and avoid the costs of transporting it from other suppliers by way of Waking Sea or the Amaranthine port." He smiled, careful and guarded, but still a smile. "I'm getting too damned old to fight with you over land boundaries anymore Osborne, we've both had enough of that, I think."

The Bann of Kesteven pursed his lips, looking to the king. "You would agree that this is a fair arrangement under concise law? I won't enter into this only to have the Crown decide it doesn't like the idea of seasonal taxation."

Alistair shrugged. "We're a seasonal country, but let the Rivaini have their eternal summers. They aren't half as hearty as we Fereldans are. I would find it acceptable, yes, and _peaceful_ solutions to boundary disputes are always appreciated."

Osborne sighed, cracking his knuckles and making others wince. "I agree to the Crown's concise trade, and to the terms of Bann Attenbury's arrangement."

It was a surprising victory, and Alistair leaned back in his seat, astounded with himself. He looked over to Gwyneth, expecting her to be displeased that he hadn't kept to _all_ her advice. Instead she was beaming, and when he turned in the chair to face her, she put a hand over his on the table, squeezing it as she leaned in close. The rest of the banns conversing amongst each other now, and their murmuring in the background for the queen's words to her husband.

"My strong, golden king, indeed."


	40. Chapter 40: Black Lotus

**Disclaimer:** _"Dragon Age: Origins" and all its expansions and additional content is the property of Bioware and EA Games. Large portions of written content within the game, as well as Dragon's Age: The Stolen Throne, and Dragon's Age: Calling, are the creation of David Gaider. Original scenarios and characters are used under the creative license of the writer, ItalianEmpress1985. No profit is being made and the following story is for entertainment purposes only_

**Words From The Author:**_ This chapter has a __Not Safe For Work __warning applied to it. I thought about putting an additional mature content notice on this, but this whole story is rated 'M' and my readers know I'm not shy of adult content by now. Right? But please do be careful reading this chapter at the workplace, I don't want anyone getting pulled into the boss's office . . . and be careful of your own limits. I'm not sure how all my readers feel about the type of content in this, and it might be too 'out there' for some, so read with caution. Also, in case it hits anyone's trigger, there is recreational drug use in this chapter big time, if the title didn't already give it away. I actually looked up the different effects of recreational drugs to sort of get a feel for what an overdose of black lotus might be like, of course it isn't exactly the same (I think black lotus makes people a lot more nuts when they take more than normal), but I don't want anybody thinking I have inside knowledge or anything. Don't do drugs! They're bad for you!_

_We turn away from politics a little bit here, so I think this chapter is a little easier to absorb, but no less tense. At least if I wrote this successfully, it'll be no less tense. Although poor Alistair is a bit . . . confused in this chapter, and later on neither he or the missus are terribly clear in their thoughts, so it could get a bit weird in those places. ;) I should also warn that neither of them are in their right minds towards the last section, and things get a little crazy. So if that makes anyone uncomfortable, just pass over the last section and wait for the next chapter, where I'll cover a bit of what happened._

_Forty chapters? Holy cape and tights, Batman! At this point I'm really considering stopping this story at a certain number and then starting a new one, making Fate and Forbearance a series of stories . . . because I think after a certain number of chapters any potential new readers I have will be too intimidated by the chapter number to want to read this. Though I suppose serializing it might do the same thing. What do YOU think, dear reader?_

_So . . . TWO HUNDRED reviews! Kwaaaiiiii! That's crazy Thank you, everyone who reviewed, read and still stays to read this story, as well as those newcomers who took on a marathon read. Our two-hundredth reviewer, Jaffa, also guessed the correct reason as to why Gwyneth doesn't like Alistair to call her sweetheart. "_Also noted that she [Eleanor] called Gwyneth "Sweetheart", I guess a possible reason for why Gwyn hates that nickname so much now." _Yeah, it's gotta be pretty off putting to hear your dead mother's favorite endearment falsely made by your arranged spouse. Yay, Jaffa! Internet cookie for you!_

_Thank you for stopping in. Watch out for low flying dragons!_

* * *

_**Chapter Forty:**_

_**Black Lotus**_

* * *

_I want to kiss you, but I want it too much.  
I want to taste you, but your lips are venomous poison._

_I hear you calling, and it's needles and pins.  
I want to hurt you, just to hear you screaming my name.  
_

_Don't want to touch you but you're under my skin, deep in.  
You're poison, burning deep inside my veins._

_Poison!_

_- Alice Cooper_

* * *

June 13'th 9:31, Dragon Age

**T**here is a bubble of manufactured laughter, the tinkling tone of the ladies and the low chuckles of the men, a cacophony of pretense over the dinner table. Alistair leans back in his seat, letting his eyes wander the contours of the room as the banns and their families fill it with the sounds of noble conversation.

_'Oh, do you like this gown? I bought it in . . .'_

_'Not at all, I've been there during one of their street festivals and it's quite . . .'_

_'Can you believe how cold the evenings have been lately? Is this not summer, are we not . . .'_

Inane and pointless, but the buzzing of it nearly soothing when one has stopped paying attention and merely let the noise become ambient. The events of the meeting that he'd been dreading, now over, mingle around in Alistair's mind as the banns themselves mingle as they pick at a supper of lamb in mince sauce. People speak to him and he nods or shakes his head, having learned a thing or two from his wife about half-listening enough to look sincere.

A concise trade agreement, one new bann, two promised seats at his privy council, agreements to have the banns' guards trained in Denerim under the same regimen as his knights, and a better understanding of how impossible to please the banns truly were. Those are the victories of his first meeting with the 'dreaded' Bannorn. There are other things that were demanded and not granted, and to assume that one meeting would mean the end of decades upon centuries of fighting was unrealistic, but at least it wasn't an utter failure.

Alistair had been warned they were prone to fighting, but it was one thing to hear that advice and another entirely to see it for himself. He hadn't meant to lose his temper, and once the words were spoken he worried that was it, the whole thing would explode, but instead their shock at being addressed like that had brought the inexperienced young king a manner of triumph. Perhaps it even helped to create an image of himself that differed from his brother and father before him.

More so, the way Gwyneth had looked at him, breathless and excited at his anger, proud and enthralled that he could be so forceful. They'd left that meeting hall, with her at his arm, preening and looking as if it was her victory alone, but the thrill of that gaze after his outburst had stayed with him, through to dinner that evening. As they both separated, fortifying their win by soothing feathers and dabbling in lesser politics, he'd catch her giving him a long glance from the corner of her eye, lips curled in a smile that was nearly pleasant if not for how unsettled it left him. Gwyneth did not look at _him_ like that, she never had, she never would . . . and yet . . .

"Does His Majesty not agree?" A softer feminine voice was at his side and Alistair was startled to find himself looking into the light green eyes of one Victoria Pontifax, Banness of Kesteven.

The young king smiled warily, unsure of what he'd been asked. "Pardon?"

She giggled, low and somewhat coy, looking for her husband to find him embroiled in discussion with his new business partner. Her voice was lowered as she dared to edge her seat closer to the sovereign. "I was saying that getting away from Denerim must be nice, I've been there and it can be so . . . cloistered. You shook your head, Sire. Do you not agree?"

"Ah, well, it isn't so bad really, but yes, getting away can be nice." He nodded, noticing that he'd been somehow left alone at the head of the table, as the main conversations drifted away from him. It was a rare gift of solitude and would've been complete if not for the young banness beside him. "So saying, I actually think I'm going to step out for a moment, get some moorland air." He excused himself, Gwyneth sparing him a second's notice with a brow raised in question. Alistair only smiled reassuringly and gestured to the eastern hall. There was an herb garden in that direction, and a covered stone veranda around it. She nodded, going back to her discussions of fashion with Lady Strathclyde.

There was a lone cricket that had braved its way into Castle Guerrein and managed to find the open patch of herbs, grass and dirt centered in the middle of it. Alistair heard the chirping pause as he stepped out of the stifling air of the keep, closing the door behind him, before the sound resumed. He looked up to the square opening above him, the lack of ceiling allowing the sheltered garden to get sun and rain. Though now only a hazy moon gave off light, the scant orange of far off sconces from the vestibules barely reaching the shadows of the lone willow tree and the growing herbs around it.

No benches, either wrought iron, carved wood, or stone, decorated that open area as the palace gardens would've flourished with places to sit. _This _garden was more for practical purposes than decorative ones, and the lack of seats was proof of that. Alistair leaned against the cobblestone curve of an archway on the other side, the shadows of the airy veranda ululating with the movement of crackling wall torches. Working at undoing gold engraved buttons, Alistair shrugged off his cranberry red doublet to sling it over one shoulder, holding it while his other arm swung loose, relaxing back into his perch.

The air was thickly scented with seasonal herbs, the smell of some of them familiar enough that the king suspected they'd recently been an addition to his dinner. He took a deep breath in, releasing some tension as he exhaled. Such was the kind of environment that the over activity necessitated by the day, had time to slow down and coalesce in his mind, where he could better figure things out.

Some part of him, perhaps the last part of the Grey Warden that once was, tried to keep saying that this was all insane. Alistair didn't belong here, he shouldn't be king, and he shouldn't be having meetings with the Bannorn. Yet, another part of him, the new breath of life in Alistair that was no longer ashamed of his crown, said that he ought to be proud, that those fighting bastards had finally listened to someone and that someone had been _him_. A slow smile eased his full mouth up into a relaxed proof of that pride.

_'What would those asses at the Chantry say? Those recruits that told me I was no good, that just because my father was a king that got me on a servant, didn't mean I was anything special. What would the young lords that visited Redcliffe have to say to my face, now that they can't call me 'stable boy' anymore?'_

He grinned at the rare, but no less appealing, thoughts of wanting to go back to those days of his harassing youth and let everyone see what he was. The sobering idea that some of those lords might have actually been in the meeting that day, made him straighten his posture. He'd never known any of their names anymore than they had cared to know his, just some rat spit boy that shoveled horse shit and made sure their saddles were on right, and he'd spit on them in return. The only way he could, by telling himself he didn't care who they were. Except now he had to at least know them, and he couldn't put any of those youthful faces to the grown men of the Bannorn or their sons of adult years.

Their sneering facades faded away until he saw _hers_, Gwyneth's peerless beauty made rotten by her greatly unappealing personality, as he'd first met her at Ostagar. Though the image that came to mind was one just outside Lothering, on the road to Redcliffe.

_"I can't walk any further, my feet are hurting." She whined, stopping to lean against a tree, actually making to take off her leather boots, only looking up when he scoffed._

_"What? Here? Sorry, miss fancy pantaloons, but we need to get going." He kept walking, turning when she didn't follow._

_"I don't believe I asked you, peasant, and aren't you forgetting that you left the decisions up to _me_? Set up our tents, I'm hungry and I want to rest."_

_"I'm not your dogsboy!"_

_"No, a loyal hound wouldn't question their betters."_

Things had improved eventually, but that first month had been torture. Alistair tried to remember how it was they ever had become friends, and found himself beginning to wonder if there was a time they truly _had_ been. She was good at pretending, better even than he'd imagined, until he had married her. _Could it all have been an act on her part? _Gwyneth had gotten nicer only _after_ she found out who his father was. She'd laughed in his face when he first told her, not believing him, but then the truth became obvious and was substantiated by Eamon later on.

_'No, no! That's absurd! She didn't want to marry _me_ anymore than I wanted to marry _her_, she couldn't have been planning on doing so that far back into things.'_

He couldn't even agree with _himself _anymore. A bubbling, manic laugh escaped him, echoing off into the veranda and up the walls of the garden.

She confused him, but he wasn't at _all_ uncertain about the admiration in her eyes that afternoon. To see that look on a face that had once born such scorn for him, made Alistair smile widely. If there was one thing he was determined to do that night, it was to remind her that she couldn't pretend she wasn't impressed, because he'd caught her at it. Let her try to call him 'peasant' with her cheeks flushed and her eyes wide.

"So, this is where a king goes for his 'fresh air'" A familiar voice came at him from the door he hadn't realized had been opened.

Victoria Pontifax was quick enough to close it behind her, leaning back into it before she carefully picked her way through the small garden, straight skirt gathered with her hand at one hip to raise the hemline enough to gain clearance for her fancy shoes. She tilted her strawberry blonde head, taking in the sight of the handsome new king, doublet casually hanging over a shoulder to reveal the breadth of the man's chest, intoxicatingly hidden beneath the thin white fabric of his shirt.

"I do hope I'm not bothering you, but I found that I needed to step away myself. Your wife was bringing up the topic of thespian traveling plays, and they bore me." She looked for a place to sit, and found none, deciding to lean against the wall next to the king, as he watched her cautiously.

He wasn't sure what to say, wanting some privacy, but knowing that to tell the banness that plainly might cause some dissention. Charm was the better tactic here, though Alistair was growing tired of having to use it without much honesty behind it. Though the woman was pleasant company, a few years older than himself, but young enough to be nearer his age than the older banns and their wives that were still at dinner. She smiled at him freely, and seemed to have a regard for his company, and despite the fact that Alistair was cautious not to look too improprietous with a married woman, he couldn't deny that he enjoyed being appreciated. There had been a significant lack of female appreciation, probably because most women were afraid to show any interest with the queen around, but she wasn't there and Banness Pontifax had a high enough pedigree to not be intimidated besides. So, at the end of his line of thinking, Alistair smiled back, deciding that a little light flirting was probably harmless and he hadn't had that since Leliana left.

Her loss remained a pang of guilt and regret, and Alistair hid a wince at those familiar feelings, warring between that and growing pride in himself. It was dizzying having your emotions in such polarizing directions. There was nothing he wanted more in that moment than to settle on one and be done with it for the evening. "Not at all, the air out here _is_ nice, and I can't keep someone else from enjoying it."

Victoria smiled, a small and full mouth making the expression adorable. At just a few years older than Alistair himself, she seemed far too young and lovely to be wasting herself on an old man, like Osborne Pontifax, but Alistair wasn't about to say that.

"Does Her Majesty frequently leave you to your own devices?" The innocent question was posed with a less than innocent intent, but Victoria was careful no to infer too much into her words.

_Did they really have to talk about _her_? He'd been frustrated with her enough already._

"Not usually, no, and it's rather nice having a moment to myself. Not that I am against the company." He shifted his doublet to the other shoulder, turning to face her.

A trill of pretty laughter and she was brave enough to dance two fingers up one of his arms, before pulling away when she reached his shoulder. "To be honest, I thought you would be very . . . self absorbed and humorless. I've been pleasantly surprised." She lowered her lashes, straightening the contours of the form fitting embossed cotton of her long gown. It held to the older standards of dress making, slim from waist to feet, hanging straight and elegantly, making a fine contrast against her skin with the mulberry hue of it.

"Well . . . I expected the Bannorn to be difficult, and frustrating and . . . I _haven't_ been pleasantly surprised." He grinned, she giggled, before he continued. "Though _you_, milady Victoria seem friendlier than the rest of them, and if you'll forgive me, you are fine company better than your husband."

She shrugged, mouth open to a sigh of long suffering. "Osborne is . . . a difficult man, that's true, but it was a good match. He's obscenely wealthy . . . at least in _coin_." She scrunched her nose, smiling into a secret laugh she shared with the king.

"Yes, he's fond of crowing about that." He knew he shouldn't really be disparaging the woman's husband like that, but maybe a little indulgence was alright, since she seemed of like mind. "I'd think he would be more proud of _you_, and he seems to be, but I don't know all that much about you, because he hasn't really said anything."

Victoria nodded her braided head, familiar enough with Osborne's dismissal. "Such is the life of a bride of the Bannorn, I'm afraid." Green eyes caught the light from the sconces as she stared up at him through her lashes, making no effort to hide the desirous appreciation in them. "You, Majesty, seem to treat your own lady with a great deal of respect. It is so rare to see and I am . . . practically envious. I do hope Her Highness realizes how lucky she is to have been matched with you."

"I have a feeling she imagines _me_ to be the lucky one." He groused before fully realizing what he was saying, eyes gone wide as he finally did, but it was too late to take it back.

Victoria only smiled, consolingly even, as she put a hand to his shoulder, moving to stand before him where she could peruse his frame openly with her eyes, making certain he was aware of it. "Then she is a fool not to see what she has before her." The young banness raised herself up on her toes, the king's surprise at her movements making him fall back into the wall as the attractive blonde woman pressed up into him, her hand at his cheek. "I have watched you all evening, admiring every inch of this perfection, and am run through with jealousy that she gets to have you in her bed, while I must make do with so much less."

"Well, I . . ." Before he could speak any further, those small plump lips were against his own, the banness moaning into his mouth. A moment of weakness had him winding his arms around her waist, plunging the depths she offered with his tongue, pent up frustration taking its release without considering the woman that was presenting it. She drew back and he followed, only to have her fingers pressed against his mouth as she giggled.

"I _knew_ you were as interested as I was, but not _here,_ My King." Her tongue snaked out to lick at his earlobe, nipping playfully at it and he groaned. "There's a room the seamstresses use, but Teagan doesn't press them into service all that much, and both women shall be busy serving as maids to the other ladies here. It'll be empty and secluded."

Alistair caught his breath, hands loosened their grip on the woman's hips, but remained there. "Look, Banness Pontifax . . ."

"_Victoria_." She corrected, crooning her name as she wriggled closer to him, feeling the proof of his arousal against her belly. "I shall leave first, make my excuses to my husband, doubtless he'll barely notice I'm gone with his head full of thoughts of even _more_ profit. Then you can . . ." She was whispering in his ear, still pressing against him.

Alistair could feel his erection growing, even as he fought not to become aroused, but Victoria's excited advances took away his body's ability to not react. "Victoria, please, listen . . . I can't . . . I can't do this."

Her chagrin and confusion warred for prominence on her lovely face, long lashes falling down to her high cheekbones as she blinked rapidly. "Why ever not? I want _you_, you want _me_ . . . no one has to know, if we're careful."

"You're a very beautiful woman, and I'd be lying if I said I wasn't tempted but . . . I'm _married_, you're _married_." He finally got out, fingers on her hips, pushing her away from him, not looking at the disappointment on that pretty facade.

"We are nobility, marriages aren't about our happiness. Would the Maker truly be so angry that we were trying to find that enjoyment somewhere else? Marriage doesn't have to mean anything beyond its appearance." She pouted, tracing the king's jaw with one finely clipped nail.

"I'm less worried about the Maker and more worried about your _husband_. It's important that I try to make peace with him and the other banns as well as I can, and I don't think laying with his wife is the road to success. Besides that, I have a wife of my own, and she wouldn't be too happy with me . . ." Alistair began his retreat, the much smaller Victoria not having the benefit of weight against his own as he pushed against her, trying to force the woman away from him, but she was persistent.

"Why is she not here with you then? So caught up in her own interests, of which it seems Your Majesty does not play so large a part. I see her, twirling around in her gowns, batting her lashes at the other banns, and you have to tolerate it because you think it is the norm of things. Is that not so? Why is it then, that you deny yourself the same pleasure she gains from others? Everyone takes their recreation elsewhere, there is no shame in it, and Osborne doesn't have to know. It can be our little secret." Victoria's lips curled up into a feline smile as she ran her hands down the youthful king's chest, finding it muscled beneath his shirt and her palms. "You are so very well made, my sweet, sweet king, and my thighs tremble at the thought of you between them. Tell me that you haven't thought of the same, that you aren't now wishing we were secreted away from here."

She was sliding a leg up between his, and Alistair took a deep gulp, knowing it was wrong, but his body betrayed him. His hard length was painfully swollen by the promise of release from his weeks of frustration. It took everything in him to deny her, but he did, forcefully pushing her back and all but growling his refusal. "No! I apologize if I made you think otherwise, but I won't do this. "

Victoria pondered ways of salvaging this, but the intent in his eyes was no longer friendly. She shook her head, the grin on her face both vicious and rueful. "A pity, you would've enjoyed yourself. I trust you won't say anything about this? It wouldn't be good for either of us . . . and if you change your mind, we've one more night to spend here." That last final offer and she retreated, leaving the flustered king behind.

A brief rectangle of light came from the open door, before all was dark but for the moonlight and the sconces. Alistair took a deep rush of air into his lungs, skin feeling as if it was on fire, and the throbbing between his legs too insistent to find a comfortable way to stand.

'_A little light flirting was probably harmless_.' He scoffed. '_Right, Alistair, good call.' _There was no way he was going to follow her back in, and so he stayed, trying to force himself to calm down.

* * *

"I do so love this gown design you have here, the full flowing skirts, they seem to make your hips look wider. Your husband must like that." Lady Aubrey Strathclyde, just one year older than Gwyneth, smiled provocatively, twittering with secret laughter as she winked at her own husband, Lord Fletcher, across the table. "When my Fletch inherits Strathmore, I hope to use Your Majesty's designs to set the standard for _my_ ladies. I simply adore stepping away from all the straight cuts of the last two decades. Setting a tone for Ferelden that is unique enough to be our own is a tantalizing idea." She picked at a small bowl of diced pears, the tines of the silver fork making delicate stabs at the fruit.

Gwyneth grinned, motioning to her neckline, square and low cut, offering a tantalizing view of cleavage without giving it all away. "Don't forget the added charm of more daring lines. I'm pleased to hear that you enjoy this new style and it is easy enough. I usually use a basic Tevalian design, sometimes even ordering a completed gown to be imported and then adding my own changes. I could send you some of the basic sketches I had my seamstresses draw up, I've no hand for drawing myself."

Aubrey put a flat palm against her collar bone in confession. "Oh, I know it! Neither do I!" She giggled in conspiracy with the new queen. "And I'd love to have even a portion of your creativity. Please do send them."

The royal consort knew, for her part in it, that Aubrey Strathcylde didn't really like her all that much and didn't find her to be _that_ creative. It was more of the same sycophantic behavior that Gwyneth had gotten used to in her youth, but it'd be a lie to say she didn't enjoy being fawned over, false or no. "I'll be certain I do that then, just as soon as we've gotten back to the capital."

Both women looked up from their place at the table as Victoria Pontifax walked by, head held at a high angle, eyes narrowing briefly down at the queen. She purposely brushed against Gwyneth's arm roughly, with one long sleeve, before she had swept her way to her husband's side. As she leaned down to whisper in Osborne's ear, he chuckled, smiling and wrapping a meaty arm around her shapely waist. She watched her observers over the bann's head, offering a disdainful smile before Victoria's attention was back on her husband.

"Well . . . _that_ was unnecessary. Such an uncouth little harlot." Aubrey sneered, her waspish retort low in Gwyneth's ear. The Lady of Strathclyde took a long sip of her wine, glaring over the rim of the glass.

"I can't really blame her for the envy she must be feeling. I have a virile young husband and she has . . . that." Gwyneth shrugged, merrily grinning at Aubrey beside her, the two women sharing in a cruel sort of enjoyment. "Speaking of which . . . "

"Virility?" Aubrey snickered in fiendish delight.

"No, of my husband in general, virility not withstanding." Gwyneth held out an open palm beneath the covering of the tablecloth, lowering her voice even more than she had already. "Did you get them?"

Aubrey nodded, cautiously looking about the table as she slipped the small sachet into Gwyneth's waiting hand. "As Her Majesty requested, and I was pleased to find we share the same . . . hobby. Certain to relax any troubles he may have inside his head, and in your own."

The leaves were soft still, not fresh, but not dried, and Lady Strathclyde had also possessed some of the petals as well. Their potency would be increased with their leaf juice still present. Gwyneth smiled coyly, planting an appreciative kiss on the offered cheek of the young woman seated beside her, receiving one in return. "Thank you ever so much, and I expect we can keep this to ourselves, for our own interests."

Aubrey grinned, taking another sip as she slipped a piece of one petal into her wine, swirling it with a finger before licking the red liquid off, winking at the queen. "But of course, what are we women without our little . . . secrets."

"Poor examples of womanhood." Gwyneth hummed happily, tucking the small sachet into the sash of her gown. Eyes glazed from the pleasant buzzing thrum of too much wine, looked over the table, not finding Alistair there at all. She knew she had misplaced him a few times, drawn in by this conversation or the other, but when he'd left the table, Gwyneth was certain he wouldn't be gone all that long. She put a hand to Aubrey's wrist, grabbing the woman's brief attention. "Do excuse me, but I believe dinner is winding down and I have to go collect my king for the night."

Aubrey dipped her head, standing from her own seat to go nab Marisol Hascal, drawing her into a new conversation. With that, the queen made her evening's tidings and headed off to make good on her intent.

* * *

The dewy grass had dampened the folded doublet Alistair had placed beneath him, as he sat, knees bent and feet to the ground, taking in the heavy scent of herbs, using old breathing exercises taught to him by the chantry. Finally his overactive libido had ebbed into a slow beat, confined for a time to the imagery in his mind. To his horror, he found there was a part of him that had been sorely tempted to take Victoria Pontifax up on her offer, and quite against his own values, Alistair caught himself imagining what the wonderfully curved woman had looked like under her gown.

He should be ashamed, if not for the fact that he was married, than at least because Leliana was still there in his memories. To have such thoughts was certainly unfair to her, so far away and surely in as much misery as he was, but Alistair had a hard time imagining his blue eyed bard laying with anyone else . . . and to be quite honest he had no desire to try. Even just thinking about it made him clench his fists, and for him to think about other women, to _desire_ other women, made Alistair feel like the kind of nobleman he'd always hated.

It was his new title, it had to be, there was something rotten about having power. It did things to people, changed them, and not for the better. Alistair had assured himself he would always stay true to his values, that he would never become the duplicitous, self-entitled and indulgent type of nobility that he'd had to put up with himself. Carting themselves around, heads high enough to be in the clouds and so certain were those men that they could have any woman they wanted. That wasn't him. _'It's not_!' But somehow, the self assurance was ringing false in the headspace between his ears, because denial did nothing to remove his more desirous thoughts . . and the king did have them.

Another deep breath, holding it as he counted backwards from ten, the transfigurations of the holy book of Andraste a boon for once, as they managed to calm him, the recitation drawing his mind away from other things, from the sin that he could feel seeping into his skin from the environment all around him. They had always been a chore before, one more thing young Alistair had to learn as he tried not to be miserable, locked away in the Chantry and practically beaten over the head with all he should not do, should not want.

'_Sins of the flesh will ruin you, impure fornication for the sake of slaking your desire will control your mind as surely as any demon_.' The cleric's words, solemn and serious, as she preached above the boys training to be templars.

Heavy thoughts for an already troubled conscience, and suddenly he wasn't so relaxed from them. The touch of skin on skin, of being truly inside a woman . . with Leliana it had been nothing short of bliss, _and how could anything be impure about the connection he felt with her? _Yet he knew that not all intimacy was like that. With Morrigan, it had been desperation, a will to live that overrode all else, but though he would never speak of it to anyone, his body had been responding to the sense of 'wrongness' about the coupling, as the witch chanted, writhing on him as she did so, hands gripping her own breasts.

The thought of it now aroused Alistair when he knew it shouldn't, and he gritted his teeth together, taking his head in his hands. "Maker! What is wrong with you? You've never been this bad about it!"

"About what?"

For an almost comical moment, Alistair thought it was his own mind speaking to him, and that was surely a sign that he truly _had_ gone mad. Then it occurred to him that his inner voice wasn't likely to sound like a woman. Turning his head up, hands falling next to his hips, he stared at the figure in the light from the open doorway, before it closed behind her and she was standing in the moonlight instead.

"Gwyneth."

She dipped her head, and though the light wasn't so bright as to see her face, he was almost certain she was smiling as she made her way over to him. A bottle was in one hand, cradled between the palm that grasped it and the hip it was pressed against.

"Hello, _Your Majesty_." She giggled, the wine making her feel wonderfully free with her amusements, and Gwyneth bowed cutely, almost stumbling as she stood back up. "Oooh, my head feels a little woozy."

"You're drunk?"

"Not yet." She went to sit delicately next to Alistair, even making to lift up the hem of her gown to do so, but as she edged down towards the ground, her knees buckled and she dropped the rest of the way unceremoniously. Leaning against him for a moment as the queen regained her composure, she laughed again, breath tinged with pears and mulled wine. The bottle that contained more of the same, was waved before Alistair playfully before she set it down on the ground. "I thought we could both get loosened up _together_." At inspecting his soured facade she widened her eyes. "I dare say, you need it more than I. What is the matter? You should be _happy_, today was a good day for you."

"I . . . I was a _little_ happy, but I've been thinking about other things and . . ." He trailed off, not daring to even look at her, breathing out so a puff of air moved one stray lock of dark blonde from his forehead.

"What things?"

"You don't want to know, trust me."

"If it will help you relax to tell me, then tell me." She insisted.

He shook his head. "No, it wouldn't."

Sighing, Gwyneth reclined back, flexing her wrists as both palms pressed against the ground. She was clearly tipsy enough to not complain about getting her dress dirty, but the young queen seemed lucid as she stared up into the open sky above them. Moments of silence went by, Alistair fidgeting and Gwyneth's mind wandering, before she spoke up. "You know, I was here before, with my mother. The chives were in season then, I seem to recall that she wanted me to have them put in a soup for my husband when I married. She would've liked your appetite." She sniffed, pushing down her melancholy with a strange half-giggle.

"Gwyneth, if it upsets you, then . . . " He wasn't so drowned in his own melancholia to not notice hers.

She shook her head. "No, I'm fine . . . I'm . . ." A broad bright smile. "Perfect. In that veranda I was with your brother for awhile too, you know and Cailan was . . . I thought he was going to kiss me."

The thoughts were fractured in their correlation, but Gwyneth could remember all of it. She wouldn't have spoken about Cailan if the wine wasn't working at her, but even for that, she was conscious of what she was saying and excuses only went so far. Maybe it was good just to talk about him.

Two fingers strayed to her lips, eyes closing as she ran them across the tender skin there. Alistair turned his head at his brother's name, wishing he hadn't as he became entranced with Gwyneth's movements, her neck tilted back, fingers moving where he had once touched with his mouth. He shuttered his eyes, looking away again.

"He did not, as it turns out." She laughed, but that time it wasn't pleasant, broken by some flinching emotion that Gwyneth wouldn't admit to. "I always admired his restraint, when other men would not have managed it. He was just as restrained with the banns that day, in a meeting much like yours, or so I suspect. My father did not wish me to attend that one."

Alistair snorted, humorlessly at what he imagined was an insult towards him, by comparison. "Right, and this is where you tell me _I_ should've shown that same restraint?" If that was her intention, he was absolutely going to remind her that she'd looked pretty damn impressed to him, for her complaining now.

She was honestly surprised at that, eyes reflecting the moonlight and making them glow eerily, the scones in the veranda at their backs lending a burning aura behind her head. "Not at all! Today you were . . ." Gwyneth paused, a hand at his elbow, turning towards him to make him look at her. "Magnificent." She breathed, watching as those dark brown irises focused in on her, seeming to grow darker yet in the half light.

"Gwyn . . . I . . ." He couldn't finish, the same fingers that had been against her lips, now pressed to his own. It reminded him of Victoria Pontifax and he winced in guilt, wanting to tell her about that encounter then and there, but the words would not work themselves out through the press of his wife's long digits.

"Don't try to convince me of your modesty, Alistair. You are always so concerned with being 'nice' . . . and today you were _not_. The way they reacted to you, and your anger, how you stood up for what you wanted . . . I cannot tell you how long I have yearned for that. To see you embrace your superiority and not shy away from it, merely because the chantry deems pride to be a sin." Her nails ran lines from his lips to his jaw, feeling his throat bob as he took in a deep breath. "Sometimes to embrace our sins is to realize who we are, what our true potential is, and the chantry and its rules had no place in that meeting hall today."

He shook his head, one beaded braid hitting the shell of his ear. "No, no that's not right. Even if it worked, I know how to control myself, and losing it like that . . . I don't want to be that person."

Gwyneth tilted her head, raising a brow at him as her hand fell away from his face. "Maybe you don't want to be, but you're changing Alistair. I can see it, and soon, _you_ will too."

Alistair held back the groan of his loathing, because he already _did_ see it, and it scared him.

If he had the intention of allowing his dire thoughts to swallow him into a black pit, Gwyneth wasn't having any of it. She could see his mood written plainly on his face, but her intent was stronger than his, the queen was certain of that. Wasting little time, if but for the moment to balance herself against the wall, she was standing again, one free hand held out to him.

"But come along to our room, you've been out here enough. You'll stink of herbs if you marinate in this air any longer."

The command made him grin despite himself, her way with words not losing its edge with her warnings of stench. "We wouldn't want that." As he took her hand, trying not to pull her down as he stood, bending to grab his doublet, he heard another laugh. A pleasant sound that didn't always do pleasant things to him.

"No, we wouldn't." Her grinning reply, as she felt the sachet pressing into one hip bone as it was trapped beneath her sash. "Though not all flora have a displeasing effect on the senses."

There was something in her words, a twining hint in the tone that already had Alistair's stomach in knots. Whenever Gwyneth plotted, which was most of the time, it always made him uneasy. Such unease was not made less merely for his shameful thoughts of both the nubile Banness Pontifax and his full figured wife. Dark brown eyes watched the sway of her hips, the wide cut of the gown almost _made_ to entice such a gaze, unable to help himself.

For a moment, he once again entertained the idea of telling his wife about Victoria offering her 'services' to him, hoping that he might know what it was like to see Gwyneth truly jealous. However, he was worried about what that would, in turn, do to _him_. What excitement might come from knowing that the queen was even remotely possessive of him, because she already had him wound up merely by her rare praise. To push for any more rarities could be dangerous to Alistair's tenuous self control. He felt it fraying rapidly at the edges, and once he was in their bedroom, privacy aplenty and temptation right within reach, his guilt might not be enough to hold him back.

Two weeks it had been since he had last had a release of pent up desire. Even in trying to remember that it was _Leliana_ he loved, and therefore Leliana that he should want, he harbored a pulsing desire for Gwyneth that burned at the edges of his mind, working itself inward like a toxin. She seemed to do very little to discourage him lately, only her coy changes of topic suggested she didn't share a similar desire for Alistair, but today had been different. An open fervor over his angry victory with the Bannorn, not hidden as Gwyneth would've hidden away most other things.

Concerns about the meeting, and the preparation for it, had proven distraction enough, tension of the more understandable sort occupying the corners of his thoughts. Now that the meeting was done, and they had only the more minor politics to contend with, for the moment, Alistair lost that last defense against the desire demons in his skull, grabbing at his sanity and shrieking their wanton commands. All the irritation he'd felt had built up against the banns until Alistair erupted, but there was no similar release for his other frustrations, made only worse by Victoria Pontifax's advances earlier in the evening.

'_I'm not going to make it through the night_.'

* * *

The bottle of wine was set on a small table just inside the door, as the royal couple reached their quarters. Alistair followed Gwyneth in, tossing his dusty doublet across a small desk, eyes falling to that dark liquid. Maybe he'd have some after all, enough to dull his mind and put him to sleep, where he would be able to convince himself, by morning, that the desire for his wife was temporary. _He could get over it if only there was some peace of mind, enough to calm him_.

"I'm going to get out of his gown, the weight of it has been pulling at my shoulders these past few hours." Gwyneth went behind the screen, wasting no time to do just that. "You go on ahead and pour yourself some wine if you like, but don't drink too much just yet, I have something else for you as well."

He started at that. '_Something else_?' Immediately his mind went to places he had bid it not to, and he all but lunged for the bottle, slumping into a high backed chair as he yanked off his fine boots. "You . . . umm . . . you had some good conversations with the ladies at dinner?" Casual talk was a good cover for his jumping nerves.

"Hmm? Oh, yes, quite. My friend Aurelia should be back in Ferelden before the end of summer, which pleases me greatly. I want all our nobility to return to this country, or rebuilding it somehow seems only a half effort, and _my_ family makes _no_ half measures. My father always said so, and I aim to maintain that creed. Also, I think my dress designs are gaining in popularity. It seems lovely to worry about those sorts of things instead of . . . well . . ." Gwyneth peeked her head around the screen, loosened hair falling around her shoulders as she grinned. "Darkspawn."

"I'm sure they'd run in terror if you started talking to _them_ about gowns." The imagery of that made him chuckle, a nicer sensation amidst all his tension.

Gwyneth laughed in kind. "If I start talking to darkspawn _at all_, I think _you_ better run in terror, because I will have clearly lost my mind."

"Bah! You go out of your gourd at least one week out of every month, I'm not scared of you." Alistair knew all about women's monthly courses, a lot more than he ever wanted to know, thanks to Wynne. He remembered asking the mage about such things, but he _couldn't_ remember why he'd had a desire for that information. He certainly regretted it now.

"Liar. There have been quite a few times you were frightened of me." She snickered at those memories, stepping out from behind the screen in a pale blue nightdress, thinner than the ones she'd worn before. Gwyneth had imagined the weather would be warmer, being that it was the beginning of summer, not anticipating the late season chill left over from spring in the moorlands. The low shell cut of it, and the short puffed sleeves, had always made her admire herself even more, the nightgown a favorite of hers when she was still living in Highever. It struck Gwyneth that she hadn't worn it since she'd left her home behind, and a pang of loss made her swallow, but the mood of the day was high and the queen pressed on.

Alistair eyed it, trying to feign disinterest. "Yeah, well, you can be a little . . . intimidating."

Gwyneth grinned, taking a seat across the small table from him, reaching for a goblet from the tray of them a servant had left there. "So can _you_."

"_Me_? No. I'm about as intimidating as a fat house cat."

"That's not what I saw today." She argued, taking a long sip, eyes closing to the full bodied flavor of the wine.

"You keep mentioning that, was it really so . . . appealing to you?" Alistair raised a brow, getting up to collect one of his own robes from where he'd taken it out in the morning, bringing it back with him.

Gwyneth smiled, eyes bright and intent on her husband. "Oh, yes, _very _much so. I could do with seeing that side of you more often." She grinned as he gulped nervously, handing her the robe. "What's this for?"

"You looked a bit cold." Sitting back down, he felt infinitely more at ease when she only shrugged and put the robe over her nightgown, though she kept the front open and loose.

"Did I? Hmm." Another shrug, and she put a small sachet on the table, smiling wickedly at the king. "I told you that you would know how I felt after your victory, and I trust that you do, and I also promised you a reward . . . and you surely have earned it."

He reached across the smooth wood to take the sachet in hand, peering through the opaque fabric with a curious expression written across his face, free palm rubbing at his goatee in thought. "Leaves and petals . . . well, I have to admit this isn't quite what I was expecting, but umm, thanks?"

Gwyneth rolled her eyes, shaking her head at how clueless he was about the content. "Not just any leaves and petals, but those from lotus blooms."

"Lotus? The only ones I've seen were always white, these are . . . black!" Upon realization of what he was holding, Alistair dropped it, standing from his seat in agitation, pointing at Gwyneth in accusation. "Black lotus leaves are a _drug_!"

"Yes, a very potent one at that, certain to finally give you the relaxation that I know you require. I would've given them to you before, but I needed some of your tension at the meeting." She explained it, matter-of-factly, a bit put out by his less than grateful reaction.

"You . . . _needed_ my tension?" Brown eyes dilated in anger at that confession. "So, what? All this time, you knew I was almost losing my senses in frustration and you just sat there, waiting for my control to snap? What the _hell_ is _wrong_ with you?"

Gwyneth had to keep herself from rounding on him, nostrils flaring as she took a deep breath. All the while Alistair raked his hands through his hair, beginning to pace. "I did what I thought needed to be done for you to succeed, for us _both_ to succeed. If you had no tension left in you at all, do really think you would've had the anger to propel you into speaking your mind? No, you wouldn't, instead you would've tried to be the 'good man' yet again, and not ruffle anyone's feathers, and that wouldn't have made them listen. Your surprising outburst _did_. Today was a victorious day, let's not ruin it by fighting."

He didn't want to listen to the truth in her words, or the way her voice was softer and calmer than his own. Gwyneth had been different, ever since their awful row at Vigil's Keep, and while he kept waiting for it to dissipate, there were only a few moments where she had lost that calm. "Gwyn, I can't . . . I don't recognize who I am anymore. How can I just accept that?"

Her hand at his shoulder made him look at her, silver eyes drawing him in as they had done before. Alistair bit into his lip, drawing blood as he fought for control.

"You are _their_ king, and _my_ husband and the man that will lead Ferelden into its new destiny, but to do that, sacrifices must be made. Nothing is free, and if we are lucky, coin is the only price to be paid. In your case, and mine, we have to give pieces of ourselves unto the great pyre, because the old Gwyneth and the old Alistair could _not_ be the sovereigns that this country needs. We have to reshape ourselves, just as we are reshaping Ferelden." She shrugged over her next words. "Besides, despite your changes, it is still _you_ in there."

Her words made sense, but Alistair knew it was another formed speech, one she had likely planned at night, while he was sleeping and she was scheming. He _knew_ those things, and still it affected him. Grandiose words that made it sound acceptable if he were to lose himself, but it could _never_ be acceptable, and there was no one that would help him escape his fate, just his queen, pushing him ever onward towards a roiling, churning future of change.

"Please, let me help you relax, let the lotus take away your tension, your guilt, your worry, until you feel as if you have no limits. Your restrictions will be gone as it flows through your veins and all your concerns will melt away in a freedom more true and pure than anything you have ever felt before." She took out the leaves, crinkling them in her hand until their dark shiny surface was cracked with tiny rivulets of lotus juice. Then dropping them into Alistair's wine, as she did the same with her own. At his questioning look, she winked. "I wouldn't let you leave me behind, I'm not possessed of a selfless personality." That, at least, was a bald truth.

He felt at a loss, as if caught in a battle when he didn't even know who the opponent was. In Alistair's mind there was no one clear idea, just a cacophony of his warping ideology and gnawing guilt, the tension in both mind and body threatening to make him fall off the edge of his sanity. Even as he nodded, he could see the chantry cleric narrowing her eyes at him, displeased at his acceptance of sin, but she wasn't here, Gwyneth was, and there was nothing remotely resembling reproach in _her_ eyes. Only dark promises that Alistair could no longer deny he wanted to take her up on, as he reached for the wine glass, the lotus floating at the top, the leaf juices already making darker swirls in the deep red liquid. One word, and the last of his controlled denial crumbled around him. "Alright."

* * *

At first there was nothing, just the sharp tang of the lotus on his tongue, before an exquisite burning trail went down his throat, sending Alistair to slump even further into his chair, until his liquid limbs had him on the floor, Gwyneth laughing. Alistair wanted to tell her not to laugh at him, but his tongue felt like it had been tacked to the roof of his mouth. The forming of words was so slow compared to how fast the black lotus began to affect him. She'd said it was potent, but he had never imagined his first experience with it to be like _this_.

His mind was still there, warning him that a normal individual wasn't suppose to feel so strangely. The colors of the room had a flavor, and the scent of the air had a sound and it was all . . . free floating craziness. "I can't stand." It was meant to sound worried, and somewhere in his skull, Alistair was panicking but everything else was humming along his brain like a massage. '_Just calm yourself, nothing concerns you anymore, nothing worries you_.' The lotus whispered, soothing and seductive and he smiled, laying back on the floor, unable to remember what exactly it was that had been bothering him before.

"_Mon amour . . ." _That achingly familiar voice came from somewhere in the air above him, as if Leliana was an angel and he tried to reach for that voice, but of course there was nothing there. Her caution, the last possible hope to save him from his own darkly hungry thoughts, had been swallowed up by the toxic sin Gwyneth offered.

"This is madness." The king said to no one in particular, but he got a real answer.

"Yes, it is . . . isn't it . . . brilliant?" Gwyneth was a fit of giggling and joyously relaxed sighs as she plopped down on the floor, Alistair's oversized robe sliding off her shoulders to fall in a puddle against her bottom, and she used the lump of it to keep her upright. It didn't work very long, and soon she was in much the same state as the lotus lost man in their quarters. "Oh, I think maybe we . . . took too much of it."

He had no opinion on that, his brain so dazed that he couldn't bother being concerned. "Your laugh sounds like . . . bluebells." The thought of that was far more hilarious to Alistair than it should've been, but he chortled anyway.

"Don't worry . . . it isn't like that story . . . _I _won't kill you." She was snickering, quite pleased with herself for getting him to try the lotus with her. If he'd remained all worked up, she would get little out of him in the following days and the trip back to Denerim. Except, the queen couldn't quite recall what the rest of her planning had entailed, _something important surely, but what?_

"You already are." Even that seemed funny, though had Alistair been in his right mind the accusation would've been far more depressing. "You're a . . . you're a _poison_, Gwyn . . . a bad one, and I don't . . . I don't know what to do with you." _Why were his words so bloody difficult to say? Why did the idea make him excited instead of horrified?_

There was the noise of her movement, but Alistair couldn't find the energy to lift his head and look, until he realized she had managed to crawl up beside him. A knowing smile drew her lips up, to show a row of fine teeth. She clambered on top of him, nearly falling off twice, bare thighs against his hips, as the movement made her nightgown ride up. Arms were folded as Gwyneth dizzily leaned down on his chest, chin pressed against it and her long mane of dark red curls spilling around her, tickling where his shirt was open.

For a second, his heavily drugged mind thought she was a demon, her grin making her look like one, but instead of rearing back in fright, the lotus sang to him. It told him everything was just fine and nothing truly mattered. Instead his fingers tried to reach for the horns on her head that weren't actually there, getting tangled in the ringlets instead, but if he didn't care, neither did she, laughing so high pitched that she sounded like a wild dog, barking.

"I think . . . you know . . . e_xactly_ what you want to do with me." Her head was swimming, and only the press of her chin against the knotted ties at the top of his shirt, made her feel like she wasn't going to go floating away. All her limbs felt light, _and goodness but the other times she had used lotus it had never been _this_ potent_! _Bless the wonderful Aubrey Strathclyde. Gwyneth thought she might kiss her, except didn't she already? _"I saw you . . . watching me in the rain . . . wanting to touch me again." Without the Nevarran drug, she would've likely not said anything about that, unsure of how to use it to her advantage. With the lotus however, the thought of using it for anything but more of this wonderfully pleasurable freedom, was lost on her and she only smiled, bringing a thumb to his lips where she rubbed at the tender pink flesh just inside. _His teeth looked so shiny_! That made her laugh again.

Alistair smiled insanely, where he might have normally been very angry at her teasing, without ever delivering anything. "You're evil, down to your . . bones, right through your skin." He wondered absently if he could _taste_ how evil her skin truly was, and he bit into the exposed cream above one breast, leaning up only to topple them both over.

Gwyneth shrieked at the sharp feeling of breaking skin, but giggled in her delirium soon after, the pain blending into just one more sensation, and she tossed her head back even as they fell over on their sides. Her throat felt parched and she tried to stand up, thinking to get more wine, which was probably a very bad idea, but Gwyneth was cut short besides, Alistair reaching up to yank her down again, her back pressed against his chest as he loomed over her.

"No, I think . . . I'm tired of you teasing, _always_ teasing. You know . . . what you're doing and you don't . . . don't care." He grinned like a madman, lips pulled taut and looking feral, as he shucked her nightgown up around her hips, smiling when she moaned and pressed her backside into his groin. _This is insane!_ His conscience and his sanity were still alive somewhere, but the sweet mad song of black lotus made them seem irrelevant to the pounding need in his veins, a madness in and of itself that a drugged mind no longer had the ability to control. "Well, I am _done_ . . . with your teasing!"

Gwyneth pressed closer to him still, like a cat in heat, the blurring lines of what was acceptable and what was deviant, all but gone, as her thoughts floated on a plane where she almost couldn't see them. "Yes . . . yes! Show me . . . show me how . . . _angry_ you are!" In the meeting, there had been a thrill up her spine to see him step outside the boundaries he would place on himself, but while Gwyneth didn't deny it, neither did she indulge in the arousal she felt. Now there was nothing to keep her silent, and that excitement grew to boundless expanses. "Take me, my king! Prove . . . how strong you are!" She squealed in delight and writhed as his broad hands yanked off her undergarments.

Alistair had several moments of vertigo where he had to stop moving for fear of falling over, but once he had his hands on her hips, it seemed to be better. He snarled at her encouragements, not sure if he was suppose to be angry, ashamed or incredibly aroused. The lotus told him that the latter was the best option, and the king surged forward, pulling his breeches down to his knees as he took his wife from behind, like an animal. When she gasped and instinctively tried to pull away from him, he yanked her back, plowing into that warm heat again.

Gwyneth screamed at the pain of such harsh thrusts and the ecstasy of it combined, unashamed of her noises in her current state, and capable only of enjoying the insanity provided by the lotus leaves and their even more potent petals. "Please!" She begged, unsure of what she was begging for, knees aching as they pressed into the floor, bosom crushed beneath the weight of her own body, as she placed her palms against the wood to keep from sliding away.

He heard her cries, her pleas, and it only made the delirious King push into her harder, a hand at the small of her back, pressing to make her arch her bottom even higher. Alistair's own pelvis was likely to ache in the morning, but he hardly cared, all that mattered was the tight pleasure of her slick warmth pulsing around him, gripping tighter still when she hit her peak. It was all too much for him, and he yelled his release, unafraid of being heard as he emptied into his conniving, writhing, horrible, enticing wife.

She might have said something, groaning in exhaustion, even as she remained on the plateau of lotus and wine. What it was, Alistair couldn't be sure, because everything became dark, and there was nothing in that abyss but what she promised. Relaxation, at long last, the cost of which wouldn't matter to either of them until the morning came, and with it, the retribution of imbibing far too much and caring far too little.


	41. Chapter 41: Cannot Be Undone

**Disclaimer:** _"Dragon Age: Origins" and all its expansions and additional content is the property of Bioware and EA Games. Large portions of written content within the game, as well as Dragon's Age: The Stolen Throne, and Dragon's Age: Calling, are the creation of David Gaider. Original scenarios and characters are used under the creative license of the writer, ItalianEmpress1985. No profit is being made and the following story is for entertainment purposes only_

**Words From The Author: **_Remember all those grammar school rules about never starting a sentence with 'and' or 'but'? I spit in the face of the rules and laugh in pride! BWAHAHAHA! Though actually, it is more that I get myself into situational dialogue where I 'have' to begin with them. Professor Felder, forgive me, I know you tried. I'm just stubborn._

_Couple things here in that no one said that Eamon had Alistair learn how to read, but I like the idea that he was taught pre-chantry. I don't think Eamon is quite the SoB that some people do, which probably colors my writing, but I try to just write what makes sense to me. Also, no one says that Alistair knows how to hunt anymore than anybody said he knew his business around horses, it just strikes me that he would've had duties as a boy that put him right in line for learning those skills, all while Gwyneth was practicing to keep her ladylike balance with a tray on her head. :p_

_I think this a very American saying, though I could be wrong, but just incase any of my readers outside of the States borders don't know what it means, I'll put it here. Having your foot in your mouth doesn't mean literally (unless explicitly stated as such) but rather having said something that you shouldn't have._

_SPECIAL NOTE: Yup, you know what this means . . . ARTWORK! Jaffa strikes again, with both a wonderfully silly comic (Gwyneth's little stick figure glare and raised brow cracks me up like mad) and a wickedly lovely portrait of Gwyneth, offering us all some black lotus with our wine. I'm particularly fond of that one, as it features Cailan's amulet and the infamous Cousland smirk. As usual, you'll find the links under 'extras' in my profile, please do check them out!_

_Thank you for stopping in. Watch out for low flying dragons!_

* * *

_**Chapter Forty One:**_

_**Cannot Be Undone**_

* * *

_I don't know what I've done, _

_or if I like what I've begun._

_But you know me, it's all, or none._

_There were sounds in my head._

_Little voices, whispering,_

_and I found myself listening._

_I don't know who I am._

_All I know is that I should._

_- __Missy Higgins_

* * *

June 14'th 9:31, Dragon Age

_**"Y**__ou did this, Eleanor! You encouraged her flirting, thinking to gain something by the king's favor on our daughter, and now look what has happened! Half the country thinks she is Cailan's newest whore!" Bryce Cousland was all but foaming at the mouth in his rage, his wife afraid of him in a way that she rarely had been in quite a while. She jumped when he threw his arm across the top of his desk, scattering papers and sending ornaments to fall and crash onto the floor._

_"Darling . . . please, calm down, this isn't going to . . ." She tried delicately, as he ran his hands through his hair, pacing hard enough that the teyrna was surprised he hadn't worn a hole in the carpet._

_"Don't you tell me to calm down, Maker damn it! You fucking Davenports and your ilk, always half planning, not thinking of the consequences!" He fumed, silver eyes glowing hotly at his wife._

_"Bryce! That's not fair!"_

_"You can tell that to Gwyneth when she comes in here, and we have to explain to her that her reputation is on the line!" His hand went to his dark beard, shot through with iron grey to the point that there was less than half of it that was still brown. "Eamon, he is coming to Highever, likely less than a week if he goes through the Bannorn. We have to fix this, and hopefully he can talk some sense into that oversexed nephew of his."_

_"Mama? Papa?" Gwyneth peeked into the room, one hand moving from the door handle to join the other as she pressed them together in front of her, knowing she was in trouble. Her mother turned to her first, eyes pained as Eleanor's face went back to the floor. It was her father that scared her, angry and red-cheeked._

_"Come in, Gwyneth and shut the door." There was no love in the command, but this was a serious matter. She did as asked, walking farther into the room with the stuttered steps of one that didn't want to be there at all. "You and the king, you've been seen together in a manner found to be inappropriate more than once. It ends, you will not see him, or speak to him unless in my presence or your brother's."_

_"But, Papa, we are just friends! I . . ."_

_"I won't hear your excuses!" He growled at her, voice lowering only when he saw her lips tremble as they always did just before she started crying. "Young ladies are not 'just friends' with Cailan Theirin. You are no scullery maid, or one of the queen's women, you are a daughter of the great Cousland line, Lady of Highever, and your dowry rests most importantly on your purity. I will not have it sullied by an over ardent young king who does not think above his belt line when around an attractive woman."_

_"You always said he was a good man before, I don't understand what's changed! He cares about me, I am his friend, no matter what you say! Cailan would never . . . " Gwyneth stamped her foot, managing enough bravado to scream back at her father._

_"You will listen to me girl, or by the Maker above, I swear I will send you to Starkhaven where the Vaels may better instruct you on what it means for ladies of high breeding to keep themselves! I'm told they aren't even to see a man, outside their family, until they have been approached for marriage."_

_Gwyneth was horrified at her father's threat, shutting her mouth, eyes gone wide. When she looked to her mother, the teyrna only appeared grieved. "I _can't_ go _there_! That place is just as stark as its name, I can't manage to flourish in such an environment, I'd wither away into nothingness!"_

_"Then take heed of what I have said, and hold yourself to a higher standard, as you damn well should have been doing! You were acting like a peasant, flirting with a married man in public. Is that what you are, Gwyneth, a _peasant_? A simpleton who will let anyone who wishes to, take her to the stables to be rutted, so she can birth more bastards?"_

_"Of course not, I'm a noble!"_

_"That's right, you _are_ a noble, and so I can't understand why you haven't been acting as such! I trusted you, Gwyneth, you have never behaved so recklessly before. You know your marriage is an important matter of state and that you must keep yourself until then. Your mother has often told you how essential it is, and so too is the _appearance_ of being untouched. Rumors that work against that can be quite damaging to your prospects if not stopped early on. Now I fear we have no choice but to do something dire to prove that your maidenhead remains intact." He dropped his eyes to the bare desk before him, shaking his head. "I've sent for a physician to examine you, his findings will be made public in a speech I shall make amongst our own people. They may have their doubts, but they will not question his proclamations, bolstered by mine, he is a trusted member of the Highever Healer's Society and attends prayers at the chantry every Sunday."_

_"No! Papa, please! I can't be humiliated like that! Some old man, looking at me!" She turned desperately to her mother. "Mama, say something! Don't do let them do this!" When Eleanor only watched her daughter with displeased eyes, Gwyneth knew there was no quarter to be found there, and once again implored her father. "I'll do whatever else I have to, in order to restore my honor and yours, but please Papa, don't shame me by making me undergo such a wretched exam!"_

_"You have shamed _yourself_, and this family. You are such a dirty, deviant girl, you and your wicked, nasty thoughts!" He snarled, face warping into something demonic._

_Gwyneth screamed her denial, backing away in fright. "I haven't! I swear I'm a good girl! I swear . . ."_

"I haven't done anything! I'm a good girl!" Her own scream woke her up, Gwyneth's face wet with tears shed in sleeping distress. She'd never known what her parents had really done or said in her father's study before she was summoned there, but she could well imagine, and she recalled her 'purity examination' far more than she would care to. Her body offered a twinge of pain between her thighs, as if in sympathy and Gwyneth winced, causing more hot moisture to drip from her closed eyes.

When she tried to sit and swipe at them, she found her face pressed to the floor, almost numb on one cheek and a heaviness lain across one side of her back, leg pinned there as well.

Panic settled into her body, and she fought to get free, unable to see and unable to get the weight off her in order to move. "Get off! Get off me! Help me! Guards!" The Cousland guards were a lazy lot, made so by a lack of fighting, but they'd come to their lady's call, surely. Then it hit Gwyneth that she wasn't home, and any protection that arrived wouldn't be her father's hirelings. She wept openly at the realization, dream and fiction meeting reality and the waking world with a heart wrenching speed, her woozy head coming out of its haze to offer its owner the brutal truth of things.

"Gwyn?" A sleepy voice, familiar if not more gravelly than she was used to, and movement above her.

"Leave me alone." She whispered, croaking out of a throat made raw from her screaming the previous night. It came back in bits and pieces, blurred and unreal to her conscious, but Gwyneth knew it _had_ been real. All of it, every guttural noise he'd made, pulling the backs of her thighs against his hips as she moaned under him like a dirty whore.

The weight lifted and Gwyneth tucked her knees up to her chest, aching limbs and a sharp sting at both her collarbone and the apex of her thighs, reminded her starkly of where they were. On the floor after a night spent imbibing far too much lotus and not nearly enough decency. She wished she had tried raw black lotus at least once before, but she hadn't, only the diluted crushed leaves. The queen also wished, in the back of her mind, that Aubrey Strathclyde had over imbibed as well, it only served the woman right. Gwyneth's ever suspicious mind already had her wondering if Lady Aubrey had _intentionally_ set her queen up for such an embarrassing morning.

'_Was it even morning_?' An assailing, milky light through the western windows confirmed that it was, though likely early on. Gwyneth was at least grateful that their room wasn't on the easternmost side of the castle.

"I . . . I think I'm going to vomit!" The proclamation from the king sounded wounded and panicked, and his wife felt it when he stumbled across the room, knocking over the dressing screen in the process. His puking and gagging into the chamber pot was the only noise in the room, until some crows outside found sport and started cawing.

That pair of Cousland eyes were never so less than proud, squinting and wincing at the light and the shame that was building in Gwyneth's guts. Wanting to be away from there, but unable to escape from Alistair as easily as all that. They were prickling hot at the corners, salty moisture gathering to spill from long lashes and down her cheeks, as Gwyneth tilted her head, a forearm gone over her face as if she could hide.

She got up after him, arms held out akimbo and elbows bent as she pushed herself to sitting, grabbing the table edge and nearly toppling it over on her. Gwyneth managed to drag her aching lethargic body into a chair, leaning back into it without regard for posture, only what little relaxation came with finally being off the floor. Her head was pounding like war drums and both hands curled into fists to press against her throbbing temples. She barely registered the change in light, when she heard shuffling beside her, followed by Alistair's croaking query.

"What . . . what did we _do_ last night?" He barely managed, leaning against the window frame, the curtains he had closed feeling scratchy next to his bared side.

"Don't you know?" Gwyneth whispered back, unable to speak loudly for fear of the pain the increased volume would cause. She glanced at him through slatted eyelids. "You're naked."

Which wasn't _entirely_ true, his breeches were still down by his ankles, not assisting his ability to walk unhindered. At the dry observation, Alistair felt his cheeks grow warm in embarrassment, quick to yank them back up in the half jerking motions of a man still recovering from drugs and spirits. "I feel awful." To reiterate that, the king moaned in agony and revulsion. "I smell like . . . "

"The chamber pot." Gwyneth offered, receiving another groan in agreement. _She_ didn't smell so wonderful either, her own breath wafting up over sensitive nostrils with the rancid stench of old wine, thick lotus and sour stomach acid. She'd probably thrown up on herself sometime during the night, from the stiff, stinking state of her nightgown's neckline. "We'll need a bath, but I shouldn't care to speak to anyone looking like _this_. Is there at least some water in here?"

"I think so." Alistair shuffled again, sounding positively wretched. "Gwyneth, I'm sorry . . . I remember what I said, what I did and I . . ."

"_Evil, down to my bones_? Isn't that it? So why should you apologize?" She sneered, and though he couldn't quite make the expression out in the dimness of their room, he must have recognized the tone.

"Please, don't. I . . . I don't know what to say."

"Then don't bother saying anything, it's only making my head hurt worse anyway." That was the Maker's honest truth, and Gwyneth held back on the knot of nausea in her gut, trying to sneak its way up into her throat. The anger towards him was hard to hold onto, protecting her from her own shame, but only just. As another hitch of tears began, she tried to get up, legs feeling unstable.

Things had not gone according to plan, and Gwyneth, normally a lady that enjoyed being wanted, took no pleasure from being desired in a way that made her own husband think on her as poison. She'd been so proud of him yesterday, her assistance bearing the fruit of success and for the first time since her marriage, Gwyneth thought she might . . . '_No_!' The fierceness returned, putting up a wall of bricks that would keep the queen safe from herself and her weaknesses that remained, despite her teachings, all her instruction.

"_I want you to be happy, always happy, my little miracle, but you need to know the way of things, the way that noble marriages work. They are for mutual benefit, and to expect more, to try and _make_ something more . . . it will only leave you disappointed and broken hearted. So you love _yourself_, you cherish _yourself_, and never let any man, not your husband, not your father, not your brother, not the Maker above, take your pride away from you. Hold your head high, remember your own greatness, and don't forget it. Ever_."

Her mother's words were so clear in her head, so certain, and she nearly wept again at the feeling of loss, to know that they were only in her memory, but Gwyneth did as she had frequently been told. She righted herself, the movements uneven, but she made them, holding her neck straight and high, even through the molten agony that shot down her spine. Anyone could have heard them last night, perhaps some maids had walked in on them and saw them on the floor, barely clothed and soaked through with their own depravity, but she would be damned to let any of that lessen her.

'_You're evil, down to your . . bones, right through your skin.' _Again his drunken, drugged words assailed her mind and Gwyneth winced. Soon after came the feeling of his teeth sinking through the very skin he'd condemned, and she was rubbing across the collarbone, fingernails coming back with flakes of dried blood from the bite.

_'Take me, my king! Prove . . . how strong you are!' She squealed in delight and writhed as his broad hands yanked off her undergarments._

Every thrust and filthy thing he'd said, she had absorbed, taken pleasure in, the way that only a depraved mind could. She was not that kind of woman, Gwyneth had been almost certain, that enjoyed being punished in some way during intercourse, but then, the only experiences she'd had were with Alistair. It wasn't as if she had other moments to draw from. All three had been violent in their own fashion, but last night had been the worst, and some dark part of her mind had loved it, reveled in that filth. She sniffed, eyes scanning the dim floor for her lost knickers, the feeling of her bare thighs dried with Alistair's seed left her feeling dirty, in more ways than one.

"We have to get cleaned up, and . . . and dressed. The others will be expecting us to break our fast with them." Even the thought of eating made her stomach turn, but she held it back, along with the shameful sting of her tears. When she felt Alistair's hand at her shoulder, it took more effort than Gwyneth would've expected not to wrench herself away from him . . . but they'd _both_ said and done things they shouldn't have last night.

"I didn't mean . . . Gwyn, we have to talk about . . ."

"Later." She whispered, once and then twice when it sounded like he would argue. "I can't . . . not now, I just can't. So . . . later?"

He nodded slowly, looking defeated as he slinked off to fetch the water basin that had been left unused the previous evening.

The black lotus had been _her_ idea, Alistair had never had it before, and Gwyneth should've taken more caution. She knew that now, but regret in the thirteenth hour was as useless as crying over it. So, the young queen tried to tell herself she didn't care what he had called her, what he'd said. She told herself that it didn't matter that she would never know any tenderness in her marriage, and that no matter what they had done, she wouldn't feel ashamed.

All her self assurances were lies, that no amount of black lotus or wine could make true.

* * *

'_Later_' she had told him that morning, as if somehow things would be easier to discuss after some time had passed. They wouldn't be, Alistair knew that. He pushed a poached egg around on the plate listlessly, chin cupped in the other idle palm as Teagan instructed him on the pheasant hunt that was to take place that afternoon. Alistair had been happy to engage in something he was half decent at, but now anything that would have brought enjoyment just made him feel guilty.

_How was it fair to enjoy himself when Gwyneth was so miserable_? And she _was_, he could tell. When she'd been angry with him before, or he touched on a subject she was sensitive about, she'd railed at him, spit angry retorts, but apart from a brief reminder of his own insults to her, she been mostly quiet. That worried him, the silence weighted down by his own remorse.

She barely looked at him, and when she did, Gwyneth cringed. That hurt, but not as much as knowing his former companion, a woman full and vibrant with living, was lifeless that morning. She nodded when it was required, still produced fake smiles that everyone else may have believed were genuine, but her eyes, so bright when she'd poured their wine last night, were dull and numb to fervor.

"Though of course we should've been doing this earlier in the day, but you can't get anyone around here to wake up before the sun starts climbing. It's more an excuse than anything, to get out and pretend to look busy." Teagan leaned over, swallowing his own piece of egg to whisper at his adopted nephew.

"Mmm." Alistair nodded, curled palm unfurled to lay against the table. Victoria Pontifax had tried to catch his gaze that morning, but he pointedly ignored her, and could now feel the heat of her rebuffed anger sizzling across the air, but he didn't have it in him to care about that too much. His eyes were watching his wife, seated next to Banness Reginalda Hascal, nodding in much the same fashion as he was. She briefly caught him watching, and there was that ripple of a cringe across her pale face, before a smile was made when Gwyneth turned back to the older banness.

There was murmuring when they arrived at breakfast, some snickering even, and sidelong glances of knowing humor. Gwyneth wasn't likely to have the banns and their families flogged for gossiping, as she had done with the guards at the palace, but it was sure to be just as embarrassing. Unlike the minor discomfort caused by the gossiping, laughing guardsmen, Alistair felt actual anger towards the banns, and had to swallow the desire to stand up and tell them all to mind their own bloody business. That wouldn't go over well, and he had enough presence of mind to want to maintain the tepid peace he'd made with the Bannorn.

"Are you trying to burn her image into your mind, so you won't forget what she looks like while you're hunting?" Teagan smiled, amused as his eyes followed the same path as Alistair's.

"Sorry?" He started, unsure of what he had been asked, and scowled at the man beside him. "What are you talking about?"

"You've been gazing at Gwyneth _all _morning. I know you've only been married since May, but I imagine the excitement of being newly wed would've waned a bit by now." Bann Guerrein dabbed at the corner of his whiskered mouth, keeping his voice low enough that it barely registered above the din of breakfast conversation about the table. "I hadn't realized you were so taken with her." In fact, Teagan would've sworn that there was something going on between Alistair and the beautiful copper haired Orlesian they'd had with them at Redcliffe those many months ago. Eamon wouldn't confirm it however, and Teagan wasn't about to ask Alistair now.

"I'm _not_ 'taken' with her." He hissed, low and coiling, dark brown eyes narrowing on his adopted uncle. "And if I want to look at my wife, that's what I'll do."

To say he was surprised at Alistair's anger would be an understatement, and the younger Guerrein brother tilted back in his seat. "_You're_ a little bit testy this morning. I have to say, it's not like you."

Alistair flinched, knowing that Teagan was the least likely bann to bear ill will against him. He sighed, rubbing at his goatee, the smell of the mint paste he and Gwyneth had used on their teeth, somehow remained in the wheat strands of his facial hair. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to be. It's just . . . well, it's complicated."

"And that would be why I'm still not married." Teagan chuckled to himself, motioning to one of the hovering servants to bring more water. "Don't tell Eamon I've said that, though, it's hard enough to get him to leave me be and I don't want to remind him to renew his efforts at matchmaking."

Alistair smiled, it was small, and lacked the mirth it normally would've held, but it was a smile all the same. "No, I won't say a word. So, this hunt, you know we probably won't catch anything, right?" He'd gone on hunts with some of the fellow initiates at the chantry, but most of his experience had been as a boy, when he was sent out to help hunt for the fresh dinner that Arlessa Isolde wanted. An old hunter, Master Shawe by name, had been fierce, unrelenting and walked with a limp in the left leg. From him, Alistair had learned more about hunting in one day then he'd learned from any number of books Arl Eamon had him practice his budding reading skills on.

Teagan shrugged, taking a long refreshing drink from the newly filled water glass. "Catching prey isn't really the point as much as just the practice. At least you won't have to worry about making any speeches."

* * *

The kennels for Teagan's hunting hounds were cleaner than Gwyneth suspected, but she figured they had been made so especially for her visit. The fact that she owned a famous mabari, and took great pride in him, was certainly no secret. A lot of kennels she'd seen in the past had packed dirt floors, but her father had once told her that fleas were more prominent in the dirt. The one back home had been of a stone floor, and she was pleased to see Teagan had followed her father's advice last year.

Noble was sat on a bed of fresh rushes, covered with a quilted blanket. He panted slowly as he looked up at his mistress, brown eyes shining brightly as the daylight filtered in through the open windows on the opposite side.

"Good morning, my own precious one. Did you sleep well?" She reached down to rub his broad chestnut head between his ears, receiving a short bark and a tilt of one brow ridge. "That's good. I'm sorry I haven't been able to check on you, I've been kept busier than you can imagine."

Noble growled briefly, yapping not unlike a smaller breed of canine, short stubby tail thumping into the pieces of hay.

Gwyneth smiled, shaking her head. "Alright, I suppose you _can_ imagine, seeing as how you haven't seen me. That's a good point." She had a long leather leash dangling over one arm, and she showed it to her prized mabari. "I'd like to take you for a walk before the hunt begins."

A curious whine had her stopping her movements to think about the answer.

"Yes, you'll be going, but with Alistair. Not alone this time, and there will be other nobles there with _their_ hounds as well, so you must be careful not to show them up."

He growled again and Gwyneth laughed.

"Yes, it can be _very_ difficult not to let them see how superior you are, believe me, I understand _that_ perfectly well, but we always do our duty, Noble. Sometimes our duty is to not always preen when others are in need of feeling important." She wagged a finger at him, patting her hip with her free hand. "Come along then, and let me put this leash on you. I assure you, it is very comfortable, and I've had it freshly polished. Nothing but the best for a Cousland, and you certainly are one, aren't you?" The queen cooed at the mabari, who was more than willing to happily accept the indulging.

He got up and stretched muscled limbs, trimmed nails clicking against the cobbled floor. That thick neck was offered, with head held high, as the clipped ring of the leash was attached to his fine studded collar.

"There. Are you ready?" She smiled when he woofed in agreement and she wound the excess of the leash around one gloved hand, to keep her palm from chaffing.

"You really do treat him as if he's royalty."

Gwyneth was startled by the unexpected voice, Alistair's frame moving to block some of the daylight in the entranceway. She paused, uncomfortable still and not knowing what to say when 'nothing' seemed far more appealing. She settled for a nod, tone gone haughty. "He _is_ royalty, just as much a part of this family as _we_ both are."

"Family . . ." Alistair tested out the word on his tongue. In relation to Gwyneth, to ever consider her family, had once been a possibility, when he'd likened her to a sister, more dear to him than the wretched shrew that actually _was_ his sister. Yet now, the king could no longer recall that feeling very well, and Gwyneth seemed as much a stranger to him as she had been at their first meeting, if not a little more personal than that. "Is that what we are?" He didn't even know if he wanted an answer, eyes gone wider as he waited, feeling as if there was a yawning chasm between them, fraught with acidic air.

"I . . . I misspoke, perhaps, my apologies." She ducked her head, making to go past him, tugging at the leash when Noble had decided to root himself to the ground. "Excuse me, Your Majesty."

"No, you don't need to do that, pretend like we aren't anything but titles. It isn't going to help, Gwyn, you know that."

Irritable, she glared at him, tugging yet again, but Noble seemed interested in their conversation and didn't want to go until he'd sated his canine curiosity. "All I know is that you've a hunt to begin at the top of the hour, and I want to walk Noble before then. " She tugged and he resisted. "Oh, come along, Noble!"

Alistair's hand fell over hers, taking over the leash when her own fingers expectedly fell away, flinching from his touch. "Here, I'll come with you. Maker knows we could both use the exercise. Isn't that right, mutt?" He grinned down at Noble, the mabari narrowing his eyes at him, but he didn't seem to mind too badly.

Gwyneth was tempted to stay behind, but she wasn't going to let Alistair take away the only _real_ companion she had just yet. '_Traitor_.' She mouthed to Noble as he cocked his head around to watch her, whining when she didn't immediately follow. "You really have to stop calling him a mutt, he's a mabari war hound." She grumbled, still caged inside the desire to avoid Alistair as much as she could, but of course that was proving impossible. The fates were a nasty lot that delighted in conspiring against the wishes of mere mortals. Instead, she fell to common and familiar complaints, hoping to thereby instead avoid the topic that Gwyneth was the least comfortable with.

"I promise I'll try, if you at least come up here and walk with me, I never like it when you're stabbing holes in my back. Those eyes of yours are a little _too_ sharp." He turned, seething through his teeth at the remaining stiffness in his neck. Alistair vowed to never again allow himself to fall asleep on the floor.

"Sharper than your wit." Gwyneth groused at him under her breath, but he heard her, and instead of looking angry, he actually seemed pleased.

"_There _she is." He'd been missing her retorts, much to his own surprise, and even just that one was a sign that she was still alive, not deadened to everything as she'd appeared to be that morning. Though she only rolled her eyes at him, standing next to him, but her arms were kept to herself, fists curled together and pressed demurely against her ribs.

Mid morning sun was steadily climbing over the peaked angles of the castle, looking for nooks and crannies where it could patter down onto the formerly shadowed grounds. As the couple walked through that dappled light, their conversation muted, nodding at the passersby, composed mostly of Teagan's staff. There was a time in Gwyneth's life that she wouldn't have paid such people any heed at all and not felt guilty about it. If she was a poison to Alistair, _she_ hadn't gotten away unscathed either. Though it would have been easy enough to blame him for that change in her, Gwyneth knew that some of it was from herself alone, circumstances brought on by the Blight that had made her see things just a bit differently. But only a bit.

"Are you going to take any of your knights with you?" She asked without turning her neck to look at him, though she could feel his eyes on her.

Alistair had to recover from the surprise question, and the even more surprising ease in which Gwyneth had put none of their tension into it. "Ah, well, I suppose I should, but don't you think their armor would scare the birds away?"

"I was thinking of Ser Boughton. He is the scout amongst your knights, and certainly the most stealthy of them. I believe he also has a set of leather armor, that _you_ gave him before we left Denerim, if I'm not mistaken."

"Yes! He does, doesn't he? I don't know why I forgot, but really I don't need their protection, it's just a hunt."

Gwyneth sighed in frustration. "You are the king, _nothing _is ever 'just' anything. Take Ser Boughton, he'll be able to stay silent enough, while also protecting your back."

Alistair felt himself smiling, watching Gwyneth as she kept her face forward, nearly unblinking, but he knew there was something under that still pond, he just wasn't sure what it was. "Worried about me?" He teased, in spite of himself.

She nodded, putting a hand down absent mindedly as Noble rubbed it with his wet nose. "Yes. As I said, you are the king, and not all of the banns mean you well. It would be most unwise to attend a hunt without protection. It may be only for the sport of it, but I'm certain the crossbows you'll all be using are real enough."

_So, despite her desire to avoid his company, she didn't want to be rid of him entirely._ It wasn't the most affectionate of reasoning she presented, but Alistair hated the uncomfortable silence between them, and the distance even more. He'd take what he could get. As they both fell to quiet contemplation, broken only by the pleasant sounds of their walking and Noble's panting, Alistair let his mind drift back to his thoughts of her the previous evening. They hadn't been false, but he knew the lotus had made them worse. He'd been confused about her, and angry that he was confused, and confused about why he was angry exactly. All in all it was very . . . confusing. He grinned at the repetition of that word in his mind, but one sided humor wasn't so sustainable a thing, and the king sobered soon after.

He'd been rough and angry, but beneath all of that, the places in his mind that weren't touched by black lotus, he just wanted to know what Gwyneth was thinking. Alistair was no closer to that goal this morning, and the insanity of last evening hadn't improved his chances in that regard. Every time he was teased with the prospect that he just _might_ be able to stand half an eternity with Gwyneth as his wife, something happened to set their spinning wheel to topple on its side.

Alistair had no idea where to begin apologizing, because there was a part of him that wasn't sorry, and another part that only wanted to try it again. It was _that_ section of his mind that made him feel like a wretch, unable to marry the idea of who he _thought_ he knew he was, and the man he was becoming. There wasn't anyone he could really talk to about it either, though the thought of speaking with Teagan had crossed his mind a few times. So he was left there trying, in what little ways that he could, to broker some kind of peace between himself and his wife. She wasn't snarling or overly nasty that morning, and that gave him a measure of hope, even if it wasn't much.

If the tension never went away, Alistair's preoccupied mind was going to drift, and he was far more likely to accidentally shoot _himself_ on the hunt, than any disgruntled bann might be tempted to do. He didn't tell Gwyneth that, but he wanted to, because maybe she'd laugh, she might even smile. As it was now, the chances of that seemed slim to none, even if Alistair's rational side of his mind told him that their stalemate couldn't possibly last _forever_.

"Never turn your back on anyone from the Bannorn, Alistair, you remember that." She did look at him then, the seriousness on her face bleeding out the faintest mirth on his own. "People are only out for themselves, and no matter how much you may want to believe that you have made a true peace with them by your meeting yesterday, you cannot be so certain as all that. So do as they do, look out for yourself."

"You gave me similar advice once, after we met my . . . after we met Goldana." His lips twisted unpleasantly, unwilling to call her his sister.

"I'd be happy if you never brought _her_ name up again, lest you curse us both and she shows up at the palace demanding a hand out." Gwyneth scoffed, one brow raising. "It's a wonder to me that she hasn't already, but no matter, the advice I gave you that afternoon was sound, and it remains so. You may think I'm an evil viper, but you cannot possibly believe that I would wish you mortal harm, what good would that do for Ferelden? So heed my advice, if you do nothing else."

Alistair stopped, Noble forced to do so as well, grunting unhappily and thwacking Alistair in the leg with his tail, which surprisingly hurt a little bit. "Ahh! Your tail is like a bull whip!" He griped, but the mabari only looked pleased with himself, _rotten git_! He didn't let it distract him for too long, waiting as Gwyneth realized he'd stopped and stood there, doing the same. "I didn't mean to say that you know. I don't actually think you are _evil_ . . . just . . . not always glowing in morals."

"You _did_ mean to say it, because you certainly made sure I felt your dislike when you were . . . " Her voice had started to raise, but as she cautiously looked around them, she lowered it. "When you were coming at me like a smith taking a hammer to his anvil."

It was an apt analogy and Alistair couldn't argue with that, but she was wrong. "No, I didn't. It's just . . . I don't know who I am, but I know who _you_ are even less, and it just makes me so tired of all the subterfuge. It has gotten to the point that even when you may honestly be helping me, that I can't trust there isn't another motive."

One lip curled in the corner, like an unhappy cat, as she stepped closer, waving a ringed hand at him angrily. "So, what? I have to be completely honest _all_ the time, or I'm a demon trying to ruin you? Are _you_ always open and honest with _me_ about everything?"

He jumped to say yes, but a nattering guilty voice in his head told him that was a lie, and he flinched, ignoring the question instead. "I never said you were a _demon_!"

"You may as well have!" Her nostrils flared, turning her painted face into an angry mural.

One of the servants swept past them, ducking his head into the collar of his wide tunic, as he carried a collection of water skins, dripping with their contents.

That calmed the both of them down, and Gwyneth turned on her heel, making a show of holding her head straight. "I have no desire to talk about this, and we haven't the time."

He grabbed her arm, with the sound of small cobblestones and shifting dirt under his polished boots as he reached out. Noble growled, pulling at his leash, sensing the anger between his mistress and her mate. "Then we'll _make_ time! Maker's breath! You act like you weren't enjoying it, as if I was the only one!"

Gwyneth hissed at him, trying to pull away from his grasp, but Alistair wouldn't let go and she didn't want to draw anyone's attention. "Someone might hear you!"

"Let them! I'm not going to let you make me the villain here, because if you'd refused, I would've stopped, lotus or no lotus, but you didn't. You wanted it, we _both_ did."

"Enough!" She threw her free arm in the air, reaching for Noble's leash, but Alistair held it away from her, even as the mabari growled fiercely enough that anyone might think he was ready to take a chunk out of the king. He met her glare for glare, and though she was whispering now, it had no less venom to it. "You make me disgusted at myself and you as well! I may not have your experience, but I know that it isn't supposed to be like _that_. I shouldn't have battle marks on me the next morning! Yet it has been just that way, thrice over now! Do you truly feel such rage with me that the only way you can think to bed me is if you are punishing me?"

He was taken aback by that, Noble's leash gone slack in his hand and the mabari took advantage to go to his mistress' side. He may have been warming to Alistair, but he would always choose Gwyneth in the end.

"_Punishing_ you? Is _that _what you think I'm doing?"

"Aren't you?"

"No! I . . . I don't know! It isn't as if I planned on things ending up that way, because I certainly didn't wake up any more spry or happier than _you_ were! I'm . . . Gwyneth, I'm confused about all of this, the way I'm feeling lately. About my crown, about myself . . . and about _you_."

She just shook her head at that, running a hand across her brow where a few stray ringlets had escaped from her crown braid. Her anger had fallen back, to be replaced with melancholia. "This wasn't suppose to happen. I was _suppose_ to be your friend in private, your queen in public and help you, and you'd be happy for that assistance, and I was going to be proud of the changes we were making. None of these . . . _complications_, were meant to arise. I never had any intention of . . ." Gwyneth winced, watching him cautiously through her lashes. "Of consummating this marriage. I never would've imagined, in a million years of counting, that _you_ would be the man I was saving my maidenhead for." Her short bark of laughter was ever so devoid of good humor. "Good lord, you know Morrigan and I used to make little jokes about you and Leliana, and I used to say how sex was so ridiculous anyway, and I didn't know what all the fuss was about."

Alistair should've been angry at that, but her voice didn't have the nasty edge to it that was usually there for such things, instead she sounded lost and sad. His own face fell, waiting for her to continue.

"I keep thinking about all the advice my mother gave me, and that embarrassing speech from Isolde when we got married, but none of it . . . none of it prepared me for _this_ . . . for this madness! I try to tell myself that I don't care, that it doesn't bother me . . ." She sniffed at that, too caught up in herself to feel embarrassed when she began to cry, hot, fat tears running down her cheeks. "But it does, because I know you weren't like this with _her_. They way you two looked each other, how could you have been? So what is it about me, and about you that makes us want to . . . devour each other? I don't know, but I _do_ know that I enjoy it, and that frightens me." He was silent still, and she was certain it was because he was ready to rail at her, another righteous speech where Gwyneth yet again was cast in a less than forgiving light. "You know what? This was a bad idea, talking like this . . . and I . . . I have to go stand with the other wives, and you need to leave as well. Take Noble with you."

"Gwyn! Wait!" He called after her as she walked away, shoulders slumped, but he wasn't about to keep yelling when there were people around. What they had both said, even in whispers, could've already been a disaster, and Alistair wasn't going to make it worse. He watched her go, hoping in vain that she would turn around, but Gwyneth remained on her course, which was away from him, as it turned out. She'd never been that open with him before, that he could ever recall, and for once he believed every word. To have her walk away from that was maddening, but at the same time, he wasn't so certain on what to say. He sighed, looking down at Noble, as the mabari wrinkled one brow ridge at him. It was an expression that never failed to impress on Alistair just how human mabari could be sometimes.

"Yes I know, no need to remind me. I better get my foot out of my mouth if I don't want to hunt one legged."

* * *

"She's an ambitious little trollop to be certain, though I expected her to be the driving force behind her husband, and now I'm thinking that might not be the case. Especially after my brother said there was a lot of loud racket coming from their quarters last evening, when he passed by there."

"Had his ear up to the door, did he?"

"Of course not! I'm just saying that it seems as if he's more forceful with his wife in _all respects_ than she is with him. At the meeting he seemed very . . . self aware of what he wanted, to the point that his wife looked surprised. Which is something I'm unaccustomed to in a King of Ferelden, since everyone knows that Rowan was the reason for Maric's early success, and Anora did most of Cailan's foot work, though I dare not mention _her_ name lest I find my head on a spike."

"Pfah! Because our boy king likes to bed his wife a little roughly, and loses his temper during meetings?"

"You have to admit, it . . . made an impression. Cailan never did so in the meetings I attended with my father, and I've heard Maric was fairly mellow as well, unless pushed into something by his 'friend' Loghain."

"Maybe he inherited it from his wench mother, then, you know how common stock can be. Still, our new 'king' is nothing to be afraid of."

"I bet that was what that ruddy Mac Tir was thinking too, until he got his head lopped off."

The recently named Bann Tarquin Loren pushed himself farther back into the shadows of a small vestibule. A thick brown curtain obscured both himself and Bann Osborne Pontifax, as they whispered at each other, secreting away to discuss the events of their meeting the previous day, before they joined the rest of the banns for the pheasant hunt.

Osborne sighed at the other man's misplaced fear of the new king. "Tarquin, Tarquin . . he gave you your title, he can't be _that_ suspect of you already. Do you really think anything should happen to you, merely by mentioning the names of those he doesn't care for?"

"If the king does nothing, his _queen_ will see to it. Her father was a vicious bastard too, lured my mother and brother to Castle Cousland and had them sacrificed so Howe wouldn't come after _him_. I take some satisfaction in the fact that it didn't work." A deep set glower, and pinched eyes accompanied his angry words. "I don't like this, we agreed to this obscene concise trade, all of us, but what will they have us agreeing to next? Wardens of the Grey as our sovereigns, and no one blinks an eye? Does no one see what is going on here? They give the post of Vigil's Keep to _another_ Warden, an _Orlesian_ at that, and I've heard tell that he's running that place _and_ Amaranthine like he's an _arl_!" Tarquin had a strong timbre to his voice and found it somewhat difficult to lower it without rasping, but he managed, dark eyes flitting back and forth nervously as he peeked his face around the curtain to make sure no one was around.

Osborne pressed his plump backside into a cutout wedge of alcove, the ledge of it acting as a seat, albeit an uncomfortable one. He nodded in agreement, grabbing Tarquin's arm to settle the lad. It wasn't as if he gave a rat's ass about the Lorens, but Bann Pontifax wasn't one to disabuse a possible short term alliance if it worked in his favor. "Mmm, I quite agree. After that bitch, Sophia Dryden, tried to take over Ferelden with _her_ Wardens, you'd think people would be more cautious. Exile suited them far better, I find. If only that fucking Maric hadn't agreed to bring that barbaric order back into this country, we wouldn't have either of them on the throne. But I think it is all because of this blasted Blight, the darkspawn changed not only the landscape of Ferelden, but its political geography, and for a time the people are more enthralled with having the 'Heroes of Ferelden' as their sovereigns, than they are aware or fearful of what those two could destroy together." He smiled, assured at the habit the people had to switch sides as their needs changed. "It won't go on forever. Eventually their shiny all 'newness' shall wear off and people will begin to notice all that isn't being done, while the Grey Wardens seem to be infecting what's left of Ferelden. They will turn on them, you'll see."

Tarquin wasn't so convinced, taking another look for eavesdroppers. "So you say, but they don't seem to be _acting_ like Grey Wardens, they don't look the part from what I've seen of that order at least, and I think the people might forget they ever were, but for children's stories and fables to chatter with their neighbors over. Commoners are easily swayed, truth these days is less a matter of bald facts than it is a commodity to be shaped and purchased. I've seen it before, and Gwyneth Cousland is a clever little whore who will use everything she has, from tits to toes, to win over the public. No matter how insane it may seem. Speaking of which, I've heard talk from my second cousin in Denerim that they are thinking of tearing down the alienage wall! Can you imagine? A bunch of bloody knife ears with no boundaries left to remind them of their place? And the motion passed the king's new privy council, which I note neither of _us_ were invited to join."

"Attenbury . . . I think _he_ was asked." Osborne sneered, rubbing at the thin line of white scruff on his chin. "I'm in a land sharing agreement with that yellow bellied waste. I'll see what information I can sneak out of him. Removing their boundaries in the cities will ripple out to _all_ of the elves in time. I certainly don't want the knife ears I have employed at my mines to start asking for more wages, the bastards whine like bitches in heat already. You'd think they would be grateful to have the work at all."

The younger man shook his head ruefully. "The peasants never are, my father told me that. You give them room to spread out and instead they grow like a tumor, worrying at their lords and sucking them dry of funds and fortitude." He sighed, rubbing his curly brown hair, pushing it back behind his ears. "It is clear the new king has some influence with the peasants and his queen has ties throughout the noble community, what's left of it at least. I can't see as there is much we can do with our _own_ influence, against _them_."

"Patience, Tarquin, we practice our patience. Play nice, participate in their little games, but watch and listen. We find out their weaknesses and use them, spread the rumors amongst our own serfs, and watch as the word of mouth does the work." Osborne was convinced of his own plans, voice calm with his reassurance. "You'll come to find that tactic is the best when you aren't sure of your opponent."


	42. Chapter 42: Taking Aim

**Disclaimer:** _"Dragon Age: Origins" and all its expansions and additional content is the property of Bioware and EA Games. Large portions of written content within the game, as well as Dragon's Age: The Stolen Throne, and Dragon's Age: Calling, are the creation of David Gaider. Original scenarios and characters are used under the creative license of the writer, ItalianEmpress1985. No profit is being made and the following story is for entertainment purposes only_

**Words From The Author: **_I did some research on pheasant hunting, though I had a hard time finding anything on medieval hunting practices, except the royal hunting of the stag. So I had to go with modern pheasant hunting and tweak accordingly, though the idea of a bunch of dark ages nobility carrying rifles made me laugh at the absurdity of it. Ahem! Anyway, I found a few great sites with a lot of information, so I don't look like a complete hunting goober, but the most helpful was the Dane County Conversation League's main pheasant page, so thanks to them for the lovely informational pages they had. Woot!_

_Gwyneth's 'C' necklace makes its first official appearance here, though she would've been wearing it during the Blight, being the Cousland cheerleader that she is, but this is the first time we've seen it in the story. It is definitely inspired by the 'B' necklace worn by the infamous Anne Boleyn, not that I'm foreshadowing Gwyneth getting her head cut off, but rather I see a likeness in the ladies absolute devotion to propelling their family name to its highest caliber and keeping it there. I can't promise this means Gwyneth is 'over' Cailan, or if she ever will be. Sorry folks, no 'everyone finds peace with themselves and lives happily ever after' around here. I'm a horrible person really, twenty lashes with a wet noodle! ;)_

_Also we find out in this chapter that Gwyneth is, in fact, NOT Elissa Cousland renamed. I went with the game names for the Cousland Origin in this chapter, because it just felt . . . right somehow. Like that is who they could've been if fate had been different. But enough of my waxing poetic, I'm horrible at poetry. Bit of a shorter chapter with this one too, but the last section fit better with the next chapter._

_NOTE__: In the last update I linked you to some lovely new art from Jaffa, but for some reason the links were . . . off. Hopefully I've fixed that, so if any of you are having trouble, try and check the new links. Listed in my profile under 'Extras' for Fate and Forbearance. Let me know if they still aren't working as well. *Crosses fingers*_

_Thank you for stopping in. Watch out for low flying dragons!_

* * *

_**Chapter Forty Two:**_

**Taking Aim**

* * *

**S**he ran, skirts gathered in sweating palms, and not sparing a glance for anything but the blind direction of her intent. Face stained with tears and puffed red with unexpected heartache and hateful shame, Gwyneth hurried to cover up the evidence of such. Cailan's face came unbidden to memory, the light in his smile, the way there had always been a brightness just for her. The suspicion that he had not cared for her in the way she'd imagined did nothing to erase the feelings of loss at no longer having him there. Nor the pain of finding very little of him in his half brother. _Cailan_ would've _never_ accused her of being evil.

_'I could have been happy, I could have made you see that a marriage to Celene was folly. It would've worked between us, I know it!' _

A hand went to Cailan's amulet, clutching it desperately as if it was her only salvation.

'_I could have loved you more than anyone, and I shall never find your like again_.'

The queen's unheard words, made her flinch. _All the 'could haves' and 'would haves' amounted to nothing, and certainly brought about no change. Romantic love was a weakness, a petty thing that did little but cause unnecessary pain. _Her own mother had told her that, and her own mother had succumbed, only to have it lead to her death, alive at her dying husband's side, a wilted end of waiting as Howe's men came for them both. _What would Eleanor say now, to her youngest child, if she saw Gwyneth uselessly mourning for something she'd never have?_

Gwyneth had reached the guest chamber she and Alistair had been afforded, shutting the door behind her as she pressed her back to it, breathing heavily, and a clenching fist still at her collar. Eyes darted about the room, belatedly worrying about any servants seeing her in such a state, but there were none, and some amount of good fortune kept her mad dash from the eyes of any banns or their wives as well. Likely they were all assembled, waiting to see their men off for the hunt. Speed was paramount if Gwyneth did not desire a particularly _un_fashionable late entrance, and misery or no, her mind was never far from _those_ concerns.

She slumped down in front of the dressing table the queen had set up for herself, cosmetic dishes, jewelry and perfume bottles scattered about in careless order. Taking a deep breath, both hands unfurled atop the old wood. Gwyneth flinched when she saw her reflection. There was nothing of her self-acclaimed beauty in that mirror, only a puffy faced girl who worried about things that didn't matter. She sniffled, taking several more breaths to accompany the first. "Oh, Mama. I need your help. I am so lost, just when I had thought to find my way again."

_"Regrets are like tears, my sweetheart. Once shed, they are but one swipe of the palm from being gone, and we will feel better for it." Eleanor had smiled, stroking Gwyneth's hair as she had lain across her bedspread, weeping after her exam, and the commandments of her father that would keep her from Cailan. "You would do well to look on any setbacks as opportunities for improvement. Let go of what you have been holding onto, and realize that in truth _that_ was what held _you_, away from personal peace and prosperity."_

Eyelids shuttered to the memory, and Gwyneth did just that, swiping at the moisture on her face. Sunlight caught the faint dust motes in the room, and lit on the vanity table, glinting against the jewelry that Gwyneth had left spilling out of a half lidded box. A flat dark golden 'C', encrusted with bits of green jade and gem-cut amber in a mimic of the Highever colors, had fallen out entirely, lain against the wood as if proud to stand out.

Her gaze fell upon it, bright in a sudden epiphany. With one last swipe at her face, she took the old necklace in hand, rubbing her thumb over its surface. '_How long had it been forgotten in favor of the memories to be found in the amulet once worn about Cailan's neck? How long would Gwyneth hold onto those ghosts, and the pathetic wishes that accompanied them? She was a daughter of blue blood, what was tenderness, what was love, in the face of so many grander things?'_

"A moment of weakness, that was all. I indulged too much." She told her reflection, even as somewhere in the young woman's psyche, she also made the excuse to her parents. Fingers laid her emblem necklace on the wood as they went to the clasp of the golden dragon still hanging against her neck, and undid it, sliding the ends away until it was sat in her palm. Gwyneth gave it a long glance before placing it inside her jewelry box, sliding the other escapees inside with it. A sad smile played at her mouth, before it was wiped clean.

A jar of her face cream was opened as the queen began a hurried process of reapplying her noble facade, kohl liner and rouge powder quick to follow. When she was done, Gwyneth took the proud golden 'C' in her hands, and latched the hooking clasp at the base of her skull.

The girl in the mirror smiled in approval.

* * *

The stallion beneath the king shifted its hooves, perhaps feeling as anxious to get underway as the young blonde man that was riding him. He snorted, black nostrils flaring at the end of a fine chestnut snout. It was a sturdy mount, on loan from Bann Teagan, and despite the handsome state of the animal, Alistair found himself missing his own steed, but the favored beast wasn't appropriate for a hunt.

_'Not that it is much of a hunt!' _

Noble appeared to share the sentiment, lifting his brow line as he looked up from the high grass, giving a plaintive whine.

"I hear you." He sighed, watching in the distance as Bann Attenbury was hunched down in the weeds with his two adult sons, the sparse tree cover not offering much in the way of camouflage. Alistair shook his head. This was the sorriest excuse for hunting he'd ever seen, and it was obvious that whatever fresh game that was served at the banns' tables had been caught by the huntsmen that these very men had on their accounts, and certainly not the noblemen themselves. The king cleared his throat, not afraid of chasing the birds away, because all the tromping about had done that already. "Ahem! You know, we should climb off the horses and move down some paces, sitting in the grass long enough that our prey might suspect we've gone."

"How do you know there aren't any here? They could be hiding." Latham Attenbury, the eldest of the two boys, returned short and terse, a tone he wouldn't have used against his king if he wasn't focused on hunting. He held his polished wooden crossbow against his leg, pointing down, so even if he did by chance see something, it wouldn't be out in time to actually shoot at it before the animal ran or flew off.

Alistair huffed, the sound of the air coming out of his widened nostrils not unlike his mount. "Because, Lord Latham, I haven't heard their calls, and we must've been here at least an hour. Not only that but pheasant finish feeding by late morning and it has to be afternoon by now, they won't be near the crop fields. We've better luck farther down the moore, where they're probably nesting."

Burington grinned, long and wide enough that it was visible form the distance he kept. "His Majesty knows a bit about the hunt, eh?"

"Only a bit." Alistair smirked to himself, clambering down from the horse after offering the stallion a friendly pat on the neck. He walked carefully to one of the few willow trees in the glade, leading his mount over to tie it there, grinning when he saw the others do the same, waiting to gauge what he was going to do before they followed suit. "We can find this spot easily enough, we ought to leave the horses here, travel on foot the rest of the way."

"I'm fine with that, anything to beat out that bastard, Pontifax and his company." Wyatt Attenbury, a year older than Alistair, brushed a wayward lock of burnished brown from his forehead, sharing a vicious grin with his older brother, until their father cleared his throat.

"That's enough. We have to keep our competition _friendly_." A somewhat nervous smile was sent Alistair's way, Burington not sure of how the king would feel about his sons voicing their dissention, especially since he had a land sharing agreement with the 'bastard' in question.

Alistair didn't care a whit, but he nodded back in reassurance anyway. Whatever competition there might have been, he had the leading edge.

Each company was split off into groups of five men, though his own had the addition of one mabari war hound, which he was sure the others were grumbling about once out of earshot. Which was also no doubt the case with his wife and the bannesses of the region, in learning that all the men had decided that a show of trust was in order and hadn't brought even one guardsmen with them.

In Alistair's group, he had Burington Attenbury, his two sons, himself, Teagan and Noble. Osborne Pontifax had grouped off with his son Willmont, in addition to Tarquin and Zacharius Loren and Bann Brandon Rochforth. The third and last group was composed of Ruben Hascal, his son Warrick, with Bann Ferrenly Strathclyde and his two eldest boys.

The king doubted the other groups were having any better luck. He turned his neck to grin at Teagan, the two of them sharing a silent joke in a reminder of the Bann of Rainesfere's words that morning. _'It's more an excuse than anything, to get out and pretend to look busy.'_ His adopted uncle walked up beside him, running a palm over the trigger of his crossbow.

"Not going to be using these much, I suspect." He winked conspiratorially, Alistair only smiling to himself as Attenbury walked ahead with his sons.

"Yeah, there, down the old deer path, looks like. There was a pond we passed by earlier and another low reed field past that." He called, Burington nodding. A bright purple ribbon was tied at the edge of the leather sleeve of his hunting doublet as he pointed.

Teagan caught sight of it, amused in some fashion, lowering his tone. "You two might not be getting along, but she gave you her favor. Though I suspect your Gwyneth gave you a better one in _this_ fine lad." He rubbed his curled knuckles against the panting mabari's head.

Alistair shrugged, eyes narrowed on the path before him. "Maybe, but she's not going to be very happy that I decided not to bring any of my knights." He was going to, but despite Gwyneth's advice, he didn't want to look the part of a coward, not in front of banns that he had only _just_ managed to wrestle any form of respect from. If they wanted to prove they were trustworthy and could keep the peace, he was willing to do the same. The king could recall her face on the stairs, that tight smile that just barely held for those that were watching them, tying the ribbon on with vicious tugs. She hadn't said anything, but he was certain to hear enough complaining later.

There other matter had not left his mind either, though looking at her, a good deal of cosmetics had covered up any proof that she'd ever been upset at all. The absence of Cailan's amulet at her neck had also concerned him, though he should've been relieved. The proud golden 'C' she'd worn during the Blight had pride of place again, but something in her eyes told him that might not be a point of improvement in his favor. A hard look was there in her sharp irises, closed down but still dangerous, fingers playing at the chain as if to purposely draw his attention to it.

Noble was whiffing along next to his legs, and stopped dead, his muscular body tightened out like a bow string, snout pointed southward. He sniffed the air, whining briefly and looking up to Alistair as the mabari purposely brushed against him.

"What is it? You smell something?"

He offered a short, low bark, as if trying to keep quiet, and went sniffing his way down the deer path, the small family of Attenburys watching the mabari move. They turned in unison to the king, who nodded encouragingly and they were off.

The scent of willow copses was almost overwhelming as weeping boughs drooped low into shallow natural ponds. Tall blades of grass and brown cattails made the glint in the water, filtering through the thin trees, look like it was blinking as the would be hunters squatted down onto the damp rich ground, leather boots creaking with too much polish.

Alistair closed one eye, raising his crossbow and balancing it against a bent forearm to steady the aim, focusing his other eye on a moving spot of flecked brown with a dash of dark red, droplets of water pattering up on to close kept feathers. He smiled, intent on having the first successful hit of the day. "Steady on, steady." The king whispered to himself, volume barely enough to be heard, heart slowed with his tongue until both seemed silent.

A click that was not from his own crossbow split the air, the pheasant squawking and shuffling away until there was clearance enough to take to the air. Just as Alistair rose to his knees to chuff out his displeasure at whatever idiot had scared off his fair game, another bolt clicked, moving through the air to lodge itself in the king's shoulder.

"Son of a . . .!" The rest of the exclamation was lost as he fell back, crossbow dropped on the ground. Teagan had been beside him and was shocked into inaction for a few agonizing minutes before he was moving, looking almost froglike as he had temporarily forgotten how to stand and hopped to Alistair instead. It would've been comical if Alistair wasn't trying to tear out the nasty bit of business that had pierced his jerkin and gone right into the soft meat of his shoulder joint.

"_What happened_?" Teagan got out, trying to get the younger man to leave the bolt alone. He could get at it better at _his_ angle than Alistair would be able to.

"I got _shot_! What do you _think_ happened?" Injured and cranky about it, Alistair hissed like an angry cat, eyes going up to the surprised faces of Burington and his sons. "Did _you_ do this?" He glared, almost shouting, the hunt and the need for silence quite aptly forgotten.

"No! I saw you were aiming, and was waiting here. My boys didn't either!" Attenbury was quick to defend, the younger heirs of Eastbrook even quicker to nod their heads.

Through the reeds, the tramping of boots came, and Zacharius Loren stood there, a stupid dazed smile on his face. "Did I get one? Where did it . . . " He trailed off, dark eyes widening down at the king in a late blooming horror. Rather for the fact that he knew he was in trouble, more than any kindly concern, but it was legitimate. "Majesty!"

"No, you didn't shoot 'one', you shot the _bloody king_, you slack jawed whoreson!" Lord Wyatt rounded on the other man, cleft chin almost wobbling in manufactured anger. If he was angry enough, the king wasn't likely to maintain suspicious dislike against the Attenburys.

As Bann Tarquin Loren came bursting into the glade, everything became chaos, shouting and accusations flinging over Alistair's head as quickly as any hunter's shot. He gritted his teeth as Teagan yanked the bolt out, glad at least that it wasn't barbed. Blood oozed from the wound like a crimson river, soaking his torn jerkin and the cotton shirt beneath it. Noble had wiggled under his arm so that the king could rest it atop the mabari's head. He smiled faintly. "You're a good boy." His voice seemed small, and he felt as though the world was sinking in on him. Noble whined and Teagan was saying something but Alistair couldn't hear it.

"We have to get him back to the castle, he's bleeding out too much! You sunk a bad one here, Loren!"

Alistair couldn't tell who the words were coming from, but they followed him down a darkening tunnel, until everything was swallowed up in it.

* * *

Gwyneth was taking tea with the other wives, bandying words with Lady Aubrey Strathclyde, trying to determine if the woman had intentionally poisoned her with an overdose of lotus. So far it seemed she had not, Aubrey appearing to not have done so well with it herself, though present company made it difficult to speak openly. The few words they _had_ managed on the subject hedged around the fact that it was more potent than either woman had anticipated and they were both sorry they took so much.

The queen was not one for so easily accepting the idea of accidents, but in Aubrey's case, Gwyneth was hard pressed to hold onto any suspicions of malice. Especially when the Lady of Strathmore was bouncing her two year old son on her knee. She was a portrait of mother hood as the young boy, hair as blonde and eyes as blue as his mother's, giggled and pressed his shy face into her neck as Aubrey nuzzled him. Gwyneth felt a pang, remembering Oren and how he had been at that age. Oren who would never know another year past five, and who had died thinking his aunt did not care for him so well.

Gwyneth offered a half smile over the rim of her tea cup, hiding her melancholia in the porcelain, another small gulp of warmed amber liquid disappearing down her gullet. "Lord Rawlin is looking handsome today. I must say he favors _you_ quite a bit."

Aubrey's own smile was far warmer and full of affection. "Oh, I know it. I was worried that Fletcher might be upset for that, but he's glad enough that his first child was a boy, and our Rawlin is a clever one." She gave the boy a kiss to the blonde down covering one temple, before handing him off to one of her women. "He's ready for an afternoon nap, I should think."

The nursemaid nodded, taking the boy away, who was too tired to put up that much of fuss, though he certainly tried. Aubrey spread an embroidered napkin across her lap, keeping the rich blue silk safe from the crumbs as she reached daintily for a sweet tart. "We are all, of course, looking forward to when _Her Majesty _will give Ferelden an heir, it has been far too long." A pointed look as teeth sank into strawberry filling.

Her mother by marriage, the Banness Milisent Strathclyde, nodded somberly. "Indeed, we waited for King Cailan . . . Maker rest his soul . . . to provide, but his wife was not so able, they said. Too much common stock in her blood." A sip of tea and there it was, spoken plainly now that the woman in question was months dead, and the king well in kind.

Reginalda Hascal, Banness of White River, raised a pair of finely plucked eyebrows, the bun of her ivory hair pulled taught enough to make her face even more severe. "Leave the girl alone, goodness! She's only been married for shy of two months! We all know it takes at least nine. For _my_ first, I felt as if I'd been pregnant for over a _year_!" She smiled consolingly at Gwyneth, patting a hand at the queen's shoulder. "Just you never mind them, love. Your mother gave Highever four heirs to call its own, you will do fine."

Victoria Pontifax, feeling left out in this conversation of children, quirked a brow. "_Four_? Pardon, Majesty, but I thought there was just you and Teyrn Fergus."

Gwyneth nodded, even as the other ladies looked scandalized at the question, or at least pretended to, thinking it would gain them favor. The hard glances smoothed when they realized the queen wasn't upset.

"Fergus is the firstborn, healthy at birth and remains so, strong and hale as ever." A note of pride made Gwyneth hold her head higher. Though she hadn't heard from her brother since he'd left Denerim, there was no good reason to make her worries plain. "But, my second brother, Aedan, was not so blessed. There was a plague running through Ferelden that year . . ."

Reginalda shook her head sadly. "The Red Sweats, I remember that. Awful time, we nearly thought to lose Queen Rowan, but she made it. Only to fall ill the following year, and we _did_ lose her _that_ time, poor woman."

Gwyneth nodded at her mother's old friend. "Yes, the Red Sweats, and Aedan and my mother both contracted it. He died shortly after being born, and though Mother pulled through, it made it difficult for her to conceive again. When she _did_, my sister, Elissa was not strong enough to survive her own birth."

Victoria glanced about, wary of the reaction she might receive, settling on the best option. "Oh, that's . . . awful. I'm sorry."

The queen gave a quick nod and a smile. "Then, there _I _was, two years later."

Janella Attenbury, Banness of Eastbrook giggled at that, the sound making her age seem almost a decade less. "Yes! Oh and I remember, everyone was certain that _you_ were not going to make it either, your mother included. Eleanor was always so concerned for that, she spoke of little else at that year's spring salon. By then she was . . . ahh, seven months in I think, and as big around as a summer melon. I told her that if she'd gone _that _long, you were certain to be alright, and you _were_. Right as rain. She called you . . ."

"Her little miracle." Gwyneth finished, taking a sip of tea that seemed awfully bitter in her mouth. The title sounded so much less appealing without her mother there to say it. "I suppose it was apt enough, all things considered."

Victoria was the one to agree with that, surprisingly so. Her eyes gone dark with some long forgotten emotion. "Yes, my son Willmont's wife . . ." It seemed an odd thing to call a man older than she was 'son', but when she'd married his father that was what he had become, and there was little else Victoria could call him. "She passed away not all that long ago, as everyone knows of course. She was two months pregnant, and there were . . . complications, though the physicians believed her passing to be caused by consumption. We lost the both of them, and I remember thinking to myself, that we are only a snap of Fate's fingers from going out, like a candle wick."

"That's hardly a pleasant thought for an afternoon tea." Banness Alara Rochforth narrowed her eyes, tutting in distaste.

Gwyneth looked to Banness Pontifax, not liking the woman anymore than she doubtlessly disliked _her_, but there was understanding there. It was the queen that gave an answer to Alara. "We don't always find ourselves living in a pleasant place." At that darker note, no one daring to disagree with Her Majesty, Gwyneth realized how macabre the mood had suddenly gotten, lips quirking up. "However, my mother always said there was no ill mood that a cup of Ferelden brew couldn't fix. So . . . does anyone care for more?"

A young man came bustling into the room, amid the surprised gasps of the serving women and the ladies alike. One of Ruben Hascal's footmen by the look of what regalia he had.

"What is _wrong_ with you boy, coming in here like that?" Reginalda Hascal scolded with some familiarity, proving his identity.

He gasped, out of breath and face red for the effort of taking air. "Begging your pardon, Your Ladyship, but I was the first one the news reached. They are returned from the hunt, the banns, and it's the king . . . " He tried again, the ladies all looking at him with wide eyed curiosity and varying levels of concern. "His Majesty has been _shot_!"

Gwyneth stood up in such a flurry that she knocked the silver tea tray over, cups and liquid spilling everywhere as she grabbed her skirts and ran past the breathless footman. She left the wives of the Bannorn behind her, shocked and murmuring amongst each other as they made a far less hurried exit.


	43. Chapter 43: Man of Quality

**Disclaimer:** _"Dragon Age: Origins" and all its expansions and additional content is the property of Bioware and EA Games. Large portions of written content within the game, as well as Dragon's Age: The Stolen Throne, and Dragon's Age: Calling, are the creation of David Gaider. Original scenarios and characters are used under the creative license of the writer, ItalianEmpress1985. No profit is being made and the following story is for entertainment purposes only_

**Words From The Author: **_This chapter felt VERY Arthur/Guinevere to me after I wrote it, though not to the point that these two aren't still very much my 'borrowed' Alistair and my Gwyneth, or that the material isn't still original to them and the story, but the similarities in their interaction were showing a bit at the edges. I've said that this story is inspired partially by T.H. White's grittier rendition of the legendary arranged marriage, but this chapter I was feeling the interweaving. Guinevere's contradictory mind and inability to admit to herself her own feelings, and Arthur's struggle with realizing that his ideals of being a good king might not be enough to keep the kingdom on track. _

_On that note, making a tilt towards dark!Alistair here, a tiny bit towards the end and more so in the following chapter, so I'm not sure everyone is going to like this, but I suppose that depends on whether you feel the development has been organic or not. *crosses fingers* His dream in particular gave me the creeps. True story. Though the flashback section that began it was fun. I like seeing the STARK difference between the Blight days and how things are now._

_That said, I have been rolling around an idea of some shorts in my head. Literary shorts, not the kind you wear. ;) I definitely want to do some Gwyneth/Cailan but I was thinking of some other vignettes as well that won't fit into this story all that well. Alistair/Leliana, Gwyneth/Morrigan, seeing Gerod Caron when he was still a stuck up noble, learning more about Urthemiel and what he was like as a god pre-archdemon, maybe some Blight days Gwyn and Alistair when they were actually friends of a sort (eventually). I'll probably wind up doing them at some point anyway, just for myself, but I'd like to know if any of my readers would be interested in that?_

_Warning__: I don't go into detail about it (who on Earth would want to?) but there is the mention of Zacharius Loren's predilection towards young adolescent boys. I know even a mention of someone like that can trigger some readers, so just a warning._

_Thank you for stopping in. Watch out for low flying dragons!_

* * *

_**Chapter Forty Three:**_

**Man of Quality**

* * *

**T**he main doors came open, bright sunlight spilling over the queen, her shoes carried in one hand to aid the speed of her flight. With no idea of her direction, Gwyneth had moved to the front stairs where she guessed they might have been, and luck was on her side. A flat palm came to her chest, over the rapid beating of her panicking heart as she ran across the cobbles, dirtying her stocking feet and in a rare moment, barely caring about it.

Moving with a pace halfway between hurried and careful, four men walked beside Alistair, lain over his horse. A bandage made of his ripped up shirt, leaving his back covered with just a huntsman cloak, was wound around his right shoulder, the king himself unconscious, blonde hair hanging long and swinging with the horse's movements. There were fearful whispers, Teagan rushing to the stairs as he spotted Gwyneth there, but she went past him as if not registering his presence at all.

"He isn't moving!" Her voice high and shrill. A shaking hand cupped his jaw, carefully gentle in a way she would not have been under different circumstances. His breathing tickled her fingers, even if there were no words for her as she bent low to inspect him, his eyes shuttered closed. A sigh of relief, letting out the breath Gwyneth didn't realize she'd been holding, those same fingers trailed a line up to his hair as she unconsciously brushed it away from his face. Then she was nothing but indignation and anger. "_What _happened? _Who_ did this? Tell me, _now_! I _command_ it!"

Zacharius Loren visibly winced, shrinking away as his brother, Tarquin, puffed out his lungs and cleared his throat. "It was an accident, Your Majesty, I assure you."

"_Accident_? Like hell it was! All of you . . ." She dropped her shoes, the clatter of them hitting the cobbles could barely be heard over her venomous shrieking. "Stood there this morning, saying how you all 'trusted' one another and you didn't need protection! Now your king has been _shot_! You cannot expect anyone to believe this to be unintentional!"

"If my brother wanted him dead, he would've have shot him in the _heart_, not the _shoulder_!' Tarquin snarled, gasps of shock surrounding him, but he realized what he had said a few seconds late in coming.

"Was that a _threat_? A new title as Bann of Lothering, that you _asked_ my husband for, and you _threaten_ him? You have some bloody nerve!" Gwyneth jabbed the young bann in the chest, looking like a harridan from the depths, eyes blazing. "You forget too quickly just how easily your family could fall out of _every_ favor!"

A gathering had collected on the stairs, the wives of the Bannorn arriving at last, and not yet daring to go to their husbands as the queen railed.

"Majesty, this is a bad moment for us _all_, but there is no need to lose our tempers. It truly was an accident." Teagan soothed, having walked back from passing orders to a wide eyed manservant. He put a hand at her elbow, but she turned on him, angry and protocol forgotten in the wake of it.

"He could've _died_! Don't tell me what is 'needed'!" Fuming, she went to Alistair's prone, body, standing beside him as if she was guarding him, the image ridiculous if she wasn't so furious. "You've sent for your physician?"

"Of course." Teagan was almost offended that she would ask. He had every care for Alistair, but knew that calmer temperaments would be of better value. Gwyneth behaved as if such temperance was somehow proof of _lack_ of care.

"Good. I'll stay with him until your man arrives." With that settled, she held her head high, grandiose in her livid state if nothing else, bending to collect her fallen shoes with all the grace she could manage. "When he wakes up, the king will decide what to _do_ with _your brother_." The promise was purposely dire, gaze narrowed on Tarquin Loren, as Gwyneth swept into the castle, Alistair's body carried behind her by Bann Teagan's footmen.

* * *

"He's going to _kill _me!" Zacharius Loren paced, nearly in tears, hands in his dark hair and running it ragged with shaking fingers.

"No one is going to kill you, it was an accident, the king will see that." Tarquin sat at the small table inside the quarters he shared with his younger brother, taking a long swig of piss warm ale, but it wasn't the taste he was after, but something to calm his own nerves. Despite his words, the new bann wasn't nearly as certain as he seemed.

"If he even _thinks_ about sparing me at all, his wife will convince him otherwise. Tarquin, you _saw_ how she was looking at me before they went inside!"

"She made quite the display of herself, that's true, enough to get the other ladies talking, but when the king comes to . . ."

"_If_ he comes to!"

"_When _he comes to, I'll try to see him, speak my peace for you."

"He _cut off _Loghain Mac'Tir's fucking _head_! _Cut it right off _in the great hall of the palace, in front of the nobles at the Landsmeet and the man's own daughter. Like it was nothing they said, Eldren Ceorlic even told me he was _smiling, _blood everywhere! You think a few _words _will change his mind?" Zacharius slumped into a chair, hands gone to his neck to rub at it, as if it were the last time he could before it would be severed. "What am I going to do? I shot the king . . . the bloody king . . . _I shot the king_!"

"_Calm down_!" Tarquin hissed, sliding his own ale mug across the table. "Drink that."

"You know I don't like . . ."

"Drink it!" It was Tarquin's turn to get up and pace, his brother's eyes following him. "You need to stay away from the stable hands, I've told you that, and now we have to worry that the queen might say something, and I can only hope that the king won't put too much stock in a rumor."

"I didn't mean to, they are just so . . . perfect, so . . ."

"_Zacharius_! Another word and I'll castrate you myself!"

He whimpered back into his seat, grimacing at the bitterness of the ale. "I should run, that's what, leave. You won't have to deal with me anymore, your disappointment of a brother."

"Stop that! You are a Loren, make something of that name, and stand your ground like a man." Tarquin commanded, fist curled under his chin in thought. "You made a mistake, that much I can't shelter you from and there will be some form of punishment, but prove your innocence by accepting it and the king will be lenient."

"What if he isn't? What if he truly means to behead me?" Zacharius' nervous eyes darted about the room like flies looking for escape.

The elder of the Loren sons narrowed his dark gaze, irises little more than slits swallowed in black pupils. "I will _never_ let them kill you, Zachy, not ever. Rest assured of that."

* * *

_A winter chill was creeping into the fall days, grown shorter with each passing sun. It drooped low, ready to sleep for the evening, and Alistair curled his long legs beneath him, bringing his tatty cloak closer to his huddling form. He would've gotten a new one, but 'company funds' as Gwyneth had named them, were sparse and had been spent to buy their newest companion a set of armor to replace useless chantry robes. A sigh, prevalent since they had left the Kocari Wilds at their backs, whispered from Alistair's lips, eyes drifting away. Poking at the slow building fire with a stick was little more than an excuse to get away from Gwyneth Cousland and her harpy's tongue._

_She was verbally vicious, and though Alistair had guessed that he wouldn't like her almost immediately, he hadn't planned on the conceited noble being so intimidating, but she _was_. Even over on the other side of camp, whispering with Morrigan as the two women conspired together. _That_ wasn't a good sign . . . _at all_._

_"Hello." _

_The voice was friendly, but it startled the young Warden, as he jumped, landing on his bottom and dropping the stick. "Ah . . . hello." The smile he offered up to the copper haired Orlesian was nervous, but he tried for friendly._

_Leliana smiled back, calmly spreading out her own cloak, leather breeches creaking in their newness as she settled down. A wince colored her pale and otherwise lovely face, eyes of crystal blue looking bright in the dim flames before the pair. "I will be most glad when these leathers are worn in." There was no response, and she seemed to realize he was still watching her, confused by her presence there beside him. "You looked as if you may have needed company over here . . . did I startle you? I'm sorry, being quiet it is a . . . " She paused, perhaps looking for the right word in Fereldish, the lean to her Orlesian accent particularly heavy as the day had drawn on. "Mmm, a . . . habit, yes? I will try to make more noise, next time."_

_Another careless shrug from his shoulders. "I don't know how 'lonely' I looked, but I can appreciate the company better than _those_ two." A hand tossed out to indicate Gwyneth and Morrigan, still whispering and sitting cross legged, looking at some kind of map. There was a smirk then, Leliana watching him with one finely arched brow. "You sure it wasn't just because I'm the only person in this group that isn't self absorbed, mean or scary?" Option three was the eerily silent giant of a Qunari they'd 'collected' in Lothering, standing still over on the far side of camp, making gestures to Gwyneth's mabari of all things. Alistair didn't have the nerve to indicate him, but Leliana must have understood, her eyes wandering there briefly._

_She seemed reserved at that, and almost a bit sad. "Maybe it is _I _that . . . that proves difficult to be around. Your friend, the noble . . ."_

_"She's _not_ my friend . . . and how did you know she was nobility?"_

_"Well, Lady Gwyneth she does not, ah, do much to hide it, no? That and she told me."_

_Alistair groaned, shaking his head. "I'll just _bet_ she did. Probably cawed on and on about how great the Couslands are and how she is so put upon to be here."_

_Leliana looked bemused, the tilt of her head making the curiosity on her face appear catlike. "She . . . does that often?"_

_"Ohh, yes. Don't worry, I think we can both learn to drown it out as background noise eventually." He shared a small laugh with the newcomer, feeling comfortable in their mismatched group for the first time. Those twinkling brown eyes darkened with less pleasant thoughts soon after. "She called you crazy, didn't she? That's what you were going to tell me, why you think people don't want to be around you, because she called you crazy? She told me that after we met you, didn't even want to bring you with us, I had to talk her into it . . . so I really hope you are good at lock picking, because that's kind of the basis of my whole argument." He grinned. "Otherwise I look like an idiot, not that I don't already."_

_ A sad smile, the facial expression of resignation. "Oh, it's, alright, I expect it."_

_"It's _not _alright! A person shouldn't have to 'expect' to be insulted by some stuck up noble brat who incorrectly thinks she is better than everyone!" Simmering anger made him raise his voice, but he didn't dare to yell, not wanting to draw anyone else's attention. "She's wrong." He turned seriously towards Leliana. "I mean, telling people that the Maker talks to you probably isn't the _best_ way to introduce yourself, but you aren't crazy."_

_The next of her smiles wasn't sad, but a warm draw of those full lips, meeting its match in the twinkle to her eyes. "I should rethink my introductions then? Yes, I suppose I should." A pause, not long enough to be awkward but enough to be thoughtful. "And _you_ are _not_ an idiot." Leliana returned._

_He would've smiled back, the warmth of her words suffusing his limbs, but there was a noise behind him, in the tree line, and he whipped around, listening. Maybe it was just an animal . . . but another twig snapped, too loudly to be anything small. "Do you hear that?" Alistair asked Leliana, but she shook her head, leaning back on her palms and peering into the darkness. "Stay here, I just want to check it out."_

_"Oh, but . . . shouldn't you bring the others?" She cautioned, top teeth fretting at her bottom lip._

_"No, it won't take me very long. Just stay here, alright?" He assured her, and at her nodded agreement, he was off._

_His long sword had been unsheathed, held firmly in one large fist, the pummel pressing against his hip lengthwise. Worn boots landed with careful footsteps in the forest bed. Pine needles weren't as loud as twigs, but he was still cautious, the long shadows of a dying day creeping into the trees and making it difficult to see. Maybe he _should've_ brought someone else, but he would look the fool if it turned out to be just some wild pig._

_A flutter of movement in front of him, too brief for Alistair to discern exactly what it was, and he hunched, moving forward with intent, fist becoming sweaty on his blade hilt. Through the evergreens and birches the figure of a man came into view, and a jolt went up Alistair's spine._

_"Who goes there?"_

_The other man was slow to turn, a length of blonde hair catching the faint light, and from the side of his profile, Alistair almost believed it to be Cailan, somehow surviving Ostagar and following them there. However, as the man faced him, Alistair fell back in shock, long sword on the ground._

_It was not Cailan, standing before him, it was himself, hair longer, face more snide than Alistair ever believed he had looked, but it was _him_. "Maker! This isn't possible!"_

_The other Alistair smiled, something dark and devoid of humor. "Was I really ever this pathetic? You are a weakness that I can't afford. The people deserve a strong king." A crossbow was at his side and he raised it, the sound of the bolt clicking into place louder than the thumping of Alistair's own frightened heart. "And I am going to give them just that, once I've disposed of _you_."_

_The bolt flew through the air, path unburdened with trees and made a line for Alistair's heart._

"Stop!" He wailed, sitting upright, eyes opening to the blurred face of a startled servant, the woman dropping the roll of bandages in her hands with a gasp. A sharp pain in his right shoulder had him doubled over again, and for a horrible moment the nightmare seemed real.

"What on Thedas is . . . Alistair!" The angry grumbling became a much friendlier shout of surprise, Gwyneth coming out from the other side of the dressing screen, a bowl of steaming water in her hands. She went to run over to the bed, but realized she still had the bowl, water sloshing over the side, and gingerly set it down on a chair, making a much more paced trek across the room. Her smile was broad, thin lips pulled out as far as they could in relief. "Thank the Maker! Teagan says the healer they've requested won't be here until very late tonight, though his physician has treated you already. You kept bleeding through your bandages and I thought . . ." She swallowed, suddenly aware of her babbling, and colored in embarrassment. "Well, I was worried is all."

His head was spinning, from his bloody injury, the confusion of a nightmare meeting reality, and the frequent sense of guilty loss that accompanied memories of Leliana. "I . . . what? What happened?" Gwyneth was a hazy form, standing at the bedside, but Alistair turned his head in the direction he thought she was in, yelping at the pain that caused.

"Oh, you ought not move, Sire! Physician Edgely said it might tear the skin there if you move wrong, the stitches are very new." The servant cautioned, reaching for his old bandages to check the wound.

Gwyneth stopped her, a hand on the woman's shoulder briefly, wanting to be alone with her husband. "It's fine. _I'll_ stay with him, you go on, have the kitchens start on some grey tea." There was no such thing as too much tea, for Gwyneth.

The servant stood, bowing her head to the king and curtseying to the queen. "Certainly Your Highness, and if you leave the old bandages in one of the bowls and set them out in the hallway, I'll have someone come collect them. At your pleasure of course."

Gwyneth nodded. "Mary, wasn't it?"

"Yes, Your Majesty."

"Then, thank you, Mary. I'll be certain to assure Bann Teagan that you are of value amongst his staff, for your services." The smile was tight, never straying too far into the territory of friendliness towards servants, but still managed to be genteel.

"I'd be grateful, Queen Gwyneth, but it really was an honor." The woman curtseyed again, turning to Alistair. "And we all hope for His Majesty's speedy recovery. Maker praise our good King Alistair." With a sweep of her skirts, the woman left, the sound of the door shutting echoing into the stale silence of the room, until Gwyneth sighed.

Alistair watched her silently, trying to bring her into focus, as his vision finally began to clear. She sat at the edge of the bed, her gown traded for a simpler dress where she could roll up the sleeves, a maid's apron tied across the front of it and stained with Alistair's blood, which in itself was a bit alarming, but he'd seen worse. Her abundant curls were pulled up into a bun, a few escaping to tickle her face and Gwyneth tucked them behind her ears as the mattress sank beneath her weight.

"You remember nothing of what happened?" At the shake of his head, she snorted, still annoyed though not currently with _him_. "You were out hunting pheasants, and that rat spit Zacharius Loren shot you with a crossbow. His brother claims it was an accident, but that's a bunch of horse shit. They at least had the sense to bring you back here immediately, though they used your own shirt for the bandages! Lord above, but I wonder if they are not idiots, the lot of them, no thought at all that they should use _their_ shirts since they are the ones responsible for your state! No sense of propriety in the slightest."

An image of his own face, angry and dark, taking aim at him, and Alistair shuddered. A crossbow bolt . . . _that_ had transcended from real life to dreamscape with a little too much accuracy for Alistair's comfort, though it was a blessing that it wasn't his heart that was the target. His shoulder didn't feel any better for that however. He went to put his other hand over the bloody bandages, but thought better of it.

"Here, let me." Gwyneth went to retrieve the bowl of water, setting it on the bed stand as Alistair gingerly maneuvered himself to a sitting position. "Physician Edgely says these ought to be changed every two hours if they continue to bleed, though thankfully it has slowed down some since he stitched you up and left us some healing ointment. Mostly I think this is just some of the infection oozing out. It was all flared up when we first got at it, probably from Loren handling the bolt . . . Maker only knows where _his_ hands have been." She'd felt a bit ill at the physician's request that she aid him, blood didn't make her all that squeamish but she wasn't enamored of seeing stitches being sewn in either. Still, she'd remained in that room since they'd first entered it with the unconscious king.

"That's . . . appealing." Alistair groaned in disgust, seething through his teeth as she pulled the layers of bandages off. "Ack! Oh, that's gross!" He got a look at it from the corner of his eye, unable to crane his neck too much, but what he saw in his peripheral vision was enough.

"Yes, well it may scar, though I hope not." She was bent over, eyes narrowed in focus and didn't see Alistair inspecting her in turn.

He let his eyes make a trail from her neck, to the skin of her upper chest, exposed by the loose fitting dress. It obviously wasn't one of hers, and the fit of it allowed him to see the mark he'd left on her the night before, teeth sinking into the flesh below her right collar bone. An odd smile found purchase on his face. "Heh. We almost match."

"What are . . . oh." She paused in her ministrations, wringing out the soaked washcloth before laying it over the bowl's lip, to tug the scoop neck of the dress a little higher, covering the mark. "Yes, _almost_." There was no returning smile, her hands taking a small clean rag and pressing it tightly to an upended glass bottle. The liquid inside had a pungent medicinal smell and as she dabbed Alistair's wound with it, he hissed.

"Maker's breath, woman! That stings!"

"There's nothing for it I'm afraid, it has to be cleaned." She eyed him, a teasing grin ready to break free. "Come now, after what we've been through, this is piffle."

"It doesn't _feel_ like piffle. It _hurts_." He whined, not above fussing to get some gentler treatment.

Gwyneth made a faux-cooing noise. "Aww, poor Alistair. Why is it men are all, rough and tough and 'worry not, fair maiden, I fear nothing!' and when they get hurt they suddenly become infants that need to be coddled?"

"I was _shot_! Were you this ambivalent about it when they brought me back?" Alistair scowled at her, but her expected angry retort never came, instead she looked away, thinking back on it and face painted with a worry he would have never thought to see on _her_ face.

"No. One of Reginalda's footmen or the like came bursting in on our tea and as soon as he said you had been shot, I ran out of there. I shouldn't have done that, it was hardly appropriate to behave so manically, I was just so . . ." She paused recalling it. "Andraste's mercy but I thought you were _dead_ when I saw you, lain over that horse, not moving."

For a shocking moment, Alistair thought she was actually going to cry, over _him_! His voice lowered, softened and he went to reach for her shoulder with his good arm. "Gwyn . . ."

She wasn't going to have any of it, though, and her face soon hardened, brushing his hand away. "The next time I tell you to bring protection, _you bring protection_!"

_"Oh, but . . . shouldn't you bring the others?" Leliana cautioned, top teeth fretting at her bottom lip._

He winced at the contrast and the similarity in kind. It didn't help that the rubbing rag was pressed a little too hard, moved viciously by the queen's temper, until Alistair shouted in pain.

Gwyneth's face crumpled, realizing what she'd done. "I'm sorry! I didn't mean . . . damn it!" She clambered up from the bed searching for a small jar, opening it to coat her fingers with the herbal ointment inside. "Here, try not to move, this will take some of the pain away."

He looked up at her accusingly, blonde brows drawn down low. "If _I_ promise to bring at least one of my knights with me next time, do _you _promise not to brutalize me later?"

She glared, still holding her fingers away from him, until he nodded his consent. As they smoothed over the wound, she finally responded, eyes focused on the task even as she did so. "Alistair, I would _never _mean you physical harm, you know that."

"No, just mental harm, right?" He seethed through teeth gritted in discomfort, as she slathered the salve on his injury.

A heavy sigh and a shake of her head, pulling away to wipe her fingers clean with a cloth on the table. "If you truly knew how much effort I've put into making you a better king, if you appreciated it for _one second_, you wouldn't say such things to me." Gwyneth began to feel sorry for herself all over again, but the admonishment's she'd made to her reflection that morning, promises to be better than that, came to her and she stiffened, standing to collect fresh bandages. "You know what, just forget it. Every time we try to talk about anything besides our duty, it just turns into a disaster and there's little point besides. No matter what is said, you'll just hate me anyway. The only thing I have to do, is my duty." She held up the bandage roll as if proof of that.

"Gwyn, I don't _hate_ you, I've _told _you that." It was an old tired argument that Alistair didn't feel up to getting into again.

"Then you're lying, either to me, or yourself, maybe both. If you _didn't_ hate me, you would not have taken me like you did last night, there was nothing driving that but _hatred_." She offered him a shrug, the words cold and unfeeling despite what surely must have been behind them. "I shouldn't have expected anything else and the fault is mine. It won't happen again." The statement was assertive but whether she was referring to sex or lotus, wasn't so clear.

The bandages in hand, she sat at the edge of the bed once more, feeling Alistair's angry eyes on her, but refusing to look at him. "Keep still, I need to wrap your shoulder." He wouldn't comply, moving away, despite the pain it must've caused him, every time she moved the bandages closer to him. "Damn it, stop being so stubborn and let me wrap your shoulder!"

He glowered instead. "So you can use it as an excuse to avoid this topic, _again_, like you did this morning, running away from me like you were frightened? I don't think so, we need to talk this out."

"No, Alistair, we don't. It is useless, and you are hurt and must contend with how to deal with Lord Loren. This is hardly the time to be getting into our _abundant _personal problems."

"You get to decide that all on your own, then? Well, I _won't_ let you keep believing I hate you. Maker's sake! Don't you realize that I . . ." He took a breath, her gaze on him and listening for once, and he wanted to get everything out but he was wary. Tolling bells of warning clanged in his head. _'Don't say it! Don't tell her! She'll use it against you! _He ignored them, parched lips opening to speak his doom.

"Don't you realize that the reason I get so . . . so, manic with you like that is because . . . because I want you? I've wanted you for _weeks_, whether it was wise to or not. We both know I don't always do things or say things that I should, but I can't help how I respond to you. You _had_ to know, teasing me like you were, knowing that it bothered me. I _love_ Leliana, and to feel that still, to only see her when I'm sleeping and then to want you at the same time, it's maddening! You play at me, making me think that you want me too, just maybe, and then nothing, as if it was all in my head. I told you once before that I'm just a man, and after two weeks of that, and then the black lotus on top of it . . . I don't know, I just snapped! Can't you understand that, Gwyneth? It wasn't _hatred_! I just lost control of myself, and I'm sorry!"

She sat there on the edge of the bed, eerily composed, and watched him until she was sure he was finished. Gwyneth took a swallow of air and then another, her face betraying nothing of the turmoil his words has caused, instead she nodded. "Yes, I can understand that. The lotus was a mistake, I see that now, I have never used so much or such potent leaves before, just the dried ones in smaller quantity. I too made an error in judgment, I should've foreseen your . . . _needs_, and I did not. For that, I am indeed sorry. As I said before, it won't happen again." Her apology was sincere but it was also impersonal, and she made no effort to recognize the disbelief on Alistair's face.

"_What_? That's . . . that's _it_? After all I just told you, there isn't anything else you have to say to me?" He was nearly breathless in the lack of reaction from her, Gwyneth's face no more passionate than if she were going over a list of items she required her servants to purchase for her.

There was something at least in her sigh of frustration. "What else _is_ there to say?"

"Do you honestly feel not even an _ounce_ of regard for me?" He was watching her as his guts seemed to roil, already anticipating an unpleasant response.

"Of _course_ I do." Her look was solemn and careful. "There was a time when you were a friend, we lost that, somehow but it doesn't mean I have no regard _at all _for you, Alistair. You are my king and my husband, and I care for you in the way that those titles require of me for a successful alliance, as both a good queen and a good wife. Beyond that . . . we are oil and water, you and I, made to swirl in the same pot for the good of Ferelden, and there is much good we can still accomplish, but anything more than that is an exercise in folly, and not the reason for this union in the first place. It would only turn us into a lifetime of apologies made too late."

She looked away again, thinking, opening her mouth to speak several times, only to close it when whatever she'd thought of wasn't quite good enough. "I find you to be an attractive man, as far as such things go, and I won't refuse you your conjugal rights to bed me. It's not an altogether _un_pleasant experience and I can't say that I did not enjoy myself after a fashion." Her cheeks warmed in embarrassment at just how shamelessly she'd 'enjoyed herself' and she hoped he didn't notice her uncomfortable blush. "But we can't be so . . . forceful about it. At the very least we need to be quieter, more discreet, because if we aren't, then all manner of nasty rumors might crop up and I'd rather avoid that. Besides which, coupling together in such a way it . . . I imagine that it can only lead us to temptation for things that won't avail our cause."

His shoulder was throbbing, drawing his attention away, but he couldn't abandon this. Her flippancy was enough to enrage the calmest of men, and Alistair had never been quite _that_ calm to begin with. She made it sound like it was nothing, just another controllable factor of their life that she alone held the reins to, and felt the need to explain to him as if he had no sense of what was _really_ going on. When it came to experience with politics, Gwyneth was no doubt in the lead, but she had been a virgin before she'd married him and in that he was far ahead of her, and certainly not requiring instructions about what 'coupling together' could cause in the long run. "No, no, I saw how upset you were this morning when we were walking Noble, you all but told me that you want something more tender from this marriage! You can't sit here now, and act as if you don't still want that!"

_'You can't give me that and wanting anything of the sort is pathetic, so what does it matter_?' But the words were locked in her head. So instead, she nodded, a shrug following. "I said that, yes, and I _was_ upset, which is why my words shouldn't have been taken into account. They were made false by my own melancholy and nothing worthwhile came from them. I've thought over things at length since then, rediscovered my purpose, and whatever I said this morning was in error, and is best forgotten."

"And when you heard I was shot, running off, like you said you did, in such a hurry to find out if I was alright, what was that then?" He scoffed, more hurt by her dismissal than he cared to admit. "Just putting on a show for the Bannorn?"

"Andraste wept! Certainly not! You could have been _dead_ for all I knew, I was in a panic! You are my king, _of course _I was concerned! What would happen to Ferelden if you died? We have only recently recovered from the death of one king, we wouldn't so easily recover so soon from the loss of another! I was relieved, and still am, that you seem well enough now. A loveless marriage doesn't imply an utterly _careless_ one by proxy." Exasperated, she held the bandages out to him. "Now, will you _please_ let me wrap your shoulder up before the salve dries completely?" '_And end this line of conversation before I say something I shouldn't_?'

Alistair gave in, letting himself sink back into the pillows and watching her work, her face a mask that kept him from seeing how she was feeling, as it seemed to have always been. He didn't half believe that she was as unconcerned about affection as she claimed, but the fact that Gwyneth could so easily put that aside made him feel like a fool all over again. Alistair wanted to believe that he could salvage _something_ from their mess of a match, beyond duty and the needs of Ferelden, but her golden 'C' was hanging around her neck, reminding the young sovereign of where her only _real_ regard would ever be, and it wasn't with him. Cailan's ghost might have been hidden away in her jewelry box, but his replacement was Gwyneth's own family pedigree , and Alistair knew there wasn't anything that mattered to her more than that.

"He has to be punished." She went on, fingers winding the roll under his armpit and back around.

Her tenderness in treating him was the only gentle attribute to her personality that had been displayed towards him so far, but Alistair wasn't going to be taken in by it. He knew better, and if he didn't, he was damn sure that he should start. "What are you on about now?" The king groused, looking up at the bland watercolor on the wall, trying to remove himself from the desire to storm out of the room, leaving Gwyneth and all her tiresome contradictions behind. But he couldn't do that, for a variety of reasons, so forcing himself to calm down was the next best thing, but of course she had to test that by starting in on a new diatribe.

"Zacharius Loren. He has to be punished for high treason." Gwyneth was matter-of-fact about it, leaning over to get a thicker roll of bandages and cloth that would be made into Alistair's sling. If he didn't wear one, he was going to forget at some point that he couldn't really use that arm, and by then the damage would already be done.

"I won't even be able to _move_ it!" He groused, as she shrugged.

"That's rather the idea, until the healer arrives tonight at the very least." It was times like that Gwyneth found herself severely missing Wynne, and having a court mage in general. Alistair may have created the position for Wynne, but the queen was coming around to the idea that it was more integral than that. Getting Alistair's privy council to agree was another matter however, and that day, Gwyneth had time for _one_ battle of wills to plan out only, and it wasn't that one.

"Fine." He returned, petulant now that his angered disbelief had become a slow simmer. Her other commentary got at him, and Alistair glowered half in confusion and half in irritation. "What's this about high treason, anyway? He didn't _kill_ me, and the man might be a little . . . well, _quite_ a bit deviant if what you said was true, but I really don't think he meant to shoot me. So he wasn't _planning _to kill me either. So how can it be high treason?"

She tugged the tied cloth up around his elbow, being careful despite her irritation. "What is _wrong_ with you and Teagan? He seemed to think it was an accident as well, but _I _certainly don't believe that, and _you_ shouldn't either! They are not friendly towards us, the Lorens, you _know_ that from studying the map and the list I gave you, and there's been no occurrence that has changed that status." Gwyneth glared, recalling the man's words. "Besides, you weren't there to hear _Tarquin_ Loren practically _threaten_ you in public. Rotten ungrateful fetcher! You are not the first man to find an 'ally' at his back with unfriendly intentions, and such turncoats had loyalty thought to be much greater than Tarquin has thus far proven _his_."

Alistair thought he understood. "Is _that _what this is about? Rendon Howe turns on your father and now _everyone_ has ill intentions? The man was a black hearted son of a bitch, but that doesn't mean you can't trust _anyone_."

"It has nothing to do with _Howe_ and everything to do with _you_!" She threw her hands in the air, standing to set them firmly at her hips. Another curl escaped and she swiped it away angrily. "You can't let people get away with these things, or it will only get worse!"

"Gwyn, Lord Loren looked _very_ surprised that he'd shot me, and I _don't _think he was acting." Alistair continued to protest. "I'm not going to behead somebody, or hang them, because they're a poor shot! What is that going to say to the Bannorn, since you are always so concerned about appearances, hmm? That I'm a tyrant, no better than Meghren the Mad King, slicing off people's heads for looking at him cross eyed."

"That's absurd! This would be perfectly justifiable, he tried to _kill _you, and even if he didn't, let's say he's just a bumbling pervert whose hands are better at molesting stable boys than hunting pheasants with a crossbow, it isn't like he doesn't deserve it, now is it? And what indeed is _not_ punishing him going to say to the Bannorn? Or even more importantly, what does that say about _you _as a king to the rest of Ferelden, or Thedas as a whole? That you are weak, that you cannot act when you have been wronged, because the _great mercy _of the new king is stronger than any of his other convictions. Good King Alistair, Man of Quality!" She scoffed with rolled eyes and a great deal of scorn.

Brown eyes were nearly black in heated anger, his feelings towards her closer to hatred than they'd been in awhile. "Don't you mock me!"

"_I'm_ not, but others will, and more importantly, what happens if it was _not_ an accident? What happens the next time someone takes a shot at you, figuring that if Zacharius Loren got away with it, why can't they? I'll tell you what will happen . . . you'll be fucking _dead_!" She growled at him, looking more akin to Noble than a queen. "This is no small thing Alistair, and your willingness to believe that everyone has a good seed has not, does not, and will not do you _any_ favors. It will land you on a funeral pyre quicker than any darkspawn."

Gwyneth sighed, fixing him with a stare that frequently made him buckle under, the look that said _'you know I'm right, make it easier on yourself and just admit it_.' "I know it pains you to make these darker decisions, and would that the world was the kind of place where you could always take a gentle hand, but it isn't. Since Ostagar you and I have had nothing but an eternity of battlefields, only now we have traded swords and shields for politics, but do not make the mistake of believing that you are somehow safer for it. Dead kings can't serve their countries, and I know, no matter how much you sometimes hate your duty, that you want that. You _want_ to make Ferelden a better place, and a king who never makes a gauntleted fist, who never makes an example so potentially deadly errors won't be repeated, isn't a man made long for the throne. Your hesitance is _not_ a wise council."

He glared back, feeling himself caving, but he wouldn't commit murder, no matter how justified she made it sound. "Gwyn, I won't _kill_ him."

"Then don't kill him, but you have to set an example _somehow_, because it might have been an accident, but it _might _have been on _purpose_ too, and you can't take a risk by being lenient. Whether you believe me or not, you know in _your own heart _that there is a chance it was intentional, a great one considering a tall blonde man can hardly be mistaken for a brown feathered pheasant, and those kinds of chances you can't afford." Her oft times hard face, set into a scowl or a glare of anger, had softened then, almost as if Gwyneth felt pity for her husband. "It pains you, because you've never had to make these types of decisions before, but you are a _king_ now, and you must _be_ one."

Alistair sighed, his innards tossing not unlike the sea during a tempest, and behind his eyes he could see the phantom of himself from his nightmare. That dark smile that could never be his, and yet it was. Still, upon waking, something in that doppelganger's words had sparked a notion of truth in him. The people needed a strong king. '_I can't do this. But you must. I can't. You can_.' His own mind fought him, and when he looked up at Gwyneth, the thought of ever finding anything with her laying dead in the space between, the people were what he had, and to help them, he first had to shape the country they all lived in.

His next words were those Alistair could scarcely believe belonged to him, but they did. "What would you have me do?"


	44. Chapter 44: The Dragon King

**Disclaimer:** _"Dragon Age: Origins" and all its expansions and additional content is the property of Bioware and EA Games. Large portions of written content within the game, as well as Dragon's Age: The Stolen Throne, and Dragon's Age: Calling, are the creation of David Gaider. Original scenarios and characters are used under the creative license of the writer, ItalianEmpress1985. No profit is being made and the following story is for entertainment purposes only_

**Words From The Author: **_Remember way back when Wynne (say that three times fast :p) jokingly referred to Alistair as the 'Dragon King'? Well, someone else came to the same conclusion (for different reasons) but wasn't joking and the name seems to have spread in its usage. It doesn't quite garner the same response that such titles as 'Richard the Lionheart' might've, for instance, but I don't know . . . I think it definitely paints an image very different from 'Golden' Cailan or Maric 'The Savior' . . . but we'll see in this chapter just what kind of king Alistair is and whether it makes or breaks him. _

_I was tempted to quote some evil-track AC/DC here, but I'm saving that for a Morgreth Urthemiel chapter. Muahahahaha! ;D *crappy devil emoticon* _

_NOTE: Speaking of whom, I have my first of those aforementioned drabbles out, concerning His Unholiness Himself, if you want to check it out, should be listed under my stories in my profile. "Seeds of the Pomegranate" by name._

_I do remember that it was Gwyneth that took the final slice at the Archdemon, and technically was the one to 'kill' Urthemiel (and boy is that evil bastard hinging on that 'technicality', rotten bugger), but she's very steadily been making a solid attempt at letting people believe otherwise because of the nobility's views on warrior queens. (I think everyone forgets that without queens like Moira and Rowan, none of them would likely be alive.) So we see a bit of that payoff in that the people believe it was Alistair that took the final blow and that it was Alistair that did battle with monsters and highwaymen more often. Though in all honesty he did do quite a lot of it. Gwyneth knows how to defend herself to a point (Thank you daddy dearest and Zevran), but she isn't nearly as good with her weapons of choice as the rest of her companions and would've been dead about a hundred times over without their protection/assistance. Oooh! An idea for a Gwyneth/Alistair flashback just struck, right in the forehead between my eyes, ouch, that hurt! :p_

_Our resident queen also made the error of thinking she hadn't been seen with her bruises and that has caused a bit of bad rumors here, though it was mildly entertaining seeing just how out of hand and false gossiping can become. It should be said that I don't agree with the ladies' assessments of anyone's character really, not Loghain or Anora either, but it was entertaining, I can't lie. The rumor mongers also bring up my first official mention of how Eamon met Isolde. _

_It isn't canon, because there really isn't any canon (that I'm aware of) that states plainly how it happened, only that Eamon married her soon after the war and had to do a bit of convincing to marry her. Canon does state that both Eamon and Teagan were sent away to the Free Marches when Rowan and her father fought in the rebellion, however "The Stolen Throne" does have Eamon in his late teens, slightly younger than Rowan, Maric and Loghain, but not anywhere near as young as Teagan (who I think was only around seven, while Eamon was seventeen or sixteen at the time the book starts, with Rowan at eighteen or nineteen, twenty at the most, as I certainly can't picture her much older than that.) However the rebellion stretched for years during the full course of the book, many of the later battles and such glazed over and not detailed as to who took part, apart from the obvious trio of Rowan, Loghain and Maric. We know from the game that Bryce Cousland and Rendon Howe fought, at some point, in the rebellion, but we never saw that in the books, only a brief appearance by Rendon Howe's uncle, who was the Arl of Amaranthine at the time. Not only that, but on a replay of the game the other day, Loghain started yelling at Eamon during the Landsmeet about having fought with them against 'those Orlesian bastards' or something to that effect and how he was wondering angrily how Eamon could've forgotten about that. I should've written down the quote exactly, but I was too lazy. :p_

_So it made sense to me, that Eamon being a young, proud Ferelden male, entering into his early twenties, would leave his little brother in the care of whatever household staff and soldiers they were sent to the Free Marches with, and would come back to Ferelden to secure his lineage, having had little word of what was going on. Seeing as how communications would've been difficult, and hearing only that the rebellion was steadily gaining in success, and it just makes sense to me that he would 'rescue' Isolde from her Orlesian family in Ferelden and sort of claim her as a battle prize. So, consider this AU from official canon, though I'm still working on the notion of half-canon, half-original content with this story. Phew! Sorry for that long explanation, but I figured it best to cover this issue now, before all the 'but this didn't happen in the books/games' questions start coming in, which is pretty much a given when someone like me goes mucking about in the empty spaces left behind by canon. That's definitely me . . . I'm a mucker. :p_

_Thank you for stopping in. Watch out for low flying dragons!_

* * *

_**Chapter Forty Four:**_

**The Dragon King**

* * *

_You think it's honor that's keeping the peace?  
It's fear! Fear and blood!_

_- __King Robert Baratheon - 'Game of Thrones'_

* * *

**T**wo wives of the Bannorn had clustered themselves into an antechamber, used as a map room by the looks of the bound scrolls in the bookcases and the few that were nailed to the bare walls. Bann Teagan wasn't a man overly fond of decoration or absent rooms. Each chamber in Castle Guerrein had a purpose, even if they weren't all currently in use.

Everyone was tensed up, waiting for King Alistair to come around and decide Zacharius Loren's fate. None daring to really hazard a guess in public, though plenty of ideas were bandied in private. There was even a rumor that Bann Attenbury's two sons had taken to betting each other on the outcome. The women whispered how that was 'horrid' but they didn't argue against it either.

"Well you know what _I_ heard? That they had an _apostate_ with them during the Blight! Who knows what kind of maleficarum rituals were going on, maybe even blood orgies! They could both be deviants far worse than some accuse Lord Loren of, and I've seen no proof of _that _besides. And you _know_ what they got up to last night. One of my maids said it sounded more like violence than coitus." Alara Rochforth whispered to her companion, fingers steepled together as her elbows rested against the table, shifting in the hard chair.

"_Blood orgies_? Maker's sake, Alara! Your husband's paranoia of mages is rubbing off on _you_. Have you any real idea what mages do?" Marisol Hascal returned, hands folded in her lap and looking every bit the dutiful Lady of White River, but her nervous eyes and habit of peering outside the room gave her away.

"Do _you_, Marisol? It isn't paranoia to be cautious." Or so Bann Brandon Rochforth had told his wife, and she gave a flawless repetition of her husband's own words. "It is certainly a calmer perspective on things than our queen offered in the courtyard this afternoon, and that _ghastly_ display as she ran out of our tea without even a word to the rest of us!"

"Her husband had been _shot_! Wouldn't _you_ be concerned if that had been Brandon instead? Sometimes I wonder where your loyalty lies."

Alara sneered at the accusation. "What, are you her _friend_ now? I suppose I shouldn't be surprised, your husband's family has always played nice with the Couslands, but do you think that's wise, Marisol?"

"I think it would prove a wisdom to us _all _to 'play nice' with the Queen of Ferelden. I imagine there will be proof of that soon after the king wakes up." Marisol eyes drifted up toward the ceiling in thought.

A silent rolling of the eyes from the Banness of Rochforth Falls. "Perhaps the queen will behead Loren herself, I did hear tell that she did some manner of fighting during the Blight. Can you imagine? So unseemly for a woman to take up the swords of a man."

"The art of being a woman is to walk the line between manners and ferocity. I somehow have my doubts that any of those monsters would have appreciated trade agreements, new gown designs, and discussions about marriage contracts over a delightful afternoon tea." Another look out the door, the sound of servants hurrying past, and Marisol was growing more twitchy by the second. She'd only meant to press Alara for more information, since Brandon had been in the hunting group with the Loren brothers. Instead she'd gotten caught up discussing the woman's own views on their queen. Marisol didn't disagree entirely, but she had a firm enough head on her shoulders to know that speaking ill of the new queen, especially at a time such as that, wasn't so safe a thing to be doing.

"I'm not an idiot, Marisol! All I'm saying is I wonder how her time spent in a more mercenary life may have affected her. Eleanor would _never_ have done so, she was a temperate woman, or so I've heard." A long pause from Alara. "Gwyneth has her father's temper I think. Not a good thing."

It was then that the Lady of White River had cause to lower her own voice. "Actually, to be honest with you, I'd be more afraid of the _king_. They say _he_ was the one that did most of the fighting, that it was our new sovereign that killed that big dragon in Denerim and slew _another _dragon in the mountains, at the tomb of Andraste! Some of the peasantry have taken to calling him the Dragon King, and I've heard that same title spoken a few times while I've been _here_."

Banness Alara snickered, covering her mouth with a delicate hand. "Come now, you don't really believe there are _dragons_ still about, or that there is such a place as a tomb for Andraste? Fairy tales, Marisol."

That dismissive retort wasn't at all accepted and Marisol bristled. "_Hardly_. There are more than a _thousand _people that can attest to the dragon in Denerim. As well as the great burst of light atop Fort Drakon, which the king said _officially _was caused by the death of the archdemon. I can't say that I knew right away what an archdemon was, but since then I've been told by several trustworthy sources that that's what the Grey Wardens call those Blight dragons. As for the tomb, Brother Genitivi, out of the capital, has personally attested, _by oath upon the chantry _even, that the tomb _was_ found and that Saint Andraste's ashes were used to cure Arl Eamon of some poison afflicted on him by Loghain MacTir."

"Bah, Genitivi has been scorned by the chantry before, for his fanciful writings and insistence on chasing after ridiculous legends. The fact that he swears an oath doesn't make it any more believable. Besides, wasn't that so-called 'scholar' hired on by that Orlesian twat, Isolde D'sevaen? Who would swear by anyone _she_ trusted? I still cannot believe that so many have become accustomed to her marriage to one of the _Guerreins_, and the _arl _at that!" Alara's nose twitched.

"I thought it was rather romantic, him riding back to Ferelden to aid his sister, helping to kill off the last vestiges of Orlesian soldiers, and rescuing the daughter of one of the more wretched imported lords, only to fall in love with her." Marisol sighed wistfully, a hand at her collarbone. "My only wonder there, is how Arl Guerrein managed to convince Bryce Cousland that he could make an honest woman of her, which must have been a chore from Bryce's attitude towards _those _sorts of arrangements, though perhaps _his_ marriage to a half Orlesian spurred him along to Eamon's way of thinking. Though it certainly made it easier to convince King Maric once he had Teyrn Cousland on his side. Much to the displeasure of Loghain Mac'Tir, of course." Marisol's expression changed to one quite sour soon after that. "What an awful man, _that _one, pretending to be the king's friend all those years, only to leave the man's son, our next king, to die on the field. _Then_ it's whispered he was in love with Queen Rowan and secretly hated King Maric while putting up the pretense of friendship. I hadn't believed such talk before, though I find myself putting more stock in it _now_. It may make me a poor Andrastian, but I'm glad Loghain's dead."

Alara only shrugged, not taken in by Marisol's 'romantic' tales, and not voicing her opinion one way or the other on how 'awful' Loghain Mac'Tir was. The late teyrn had been executed, and yet the banness thought she'd heard his name more _after_ his beheading then she'd ever heard him mentioned in casual conversation while he was still _alive_.

Marisol twisted around in her seat, trying unsuccessfully to get comfortable, going back to her original topic, after Alara's pensive silence. She shrugged in her chair, braided bun of dark brown hair making her look like she had a small tiara at the back of her head, even as she tucked wisps of it back in. A stark contrast to the delicately long blonde locks that her companion possessed. "Besides, even if _those_ things were not true, it is _certainly_ no fairy tale that the king does not suffer those that wrong him and isn't afraid to behead them for it. One of my seamstresses used to work for Mistress Dalens in the palace, before moving to our estate, and she says they were a _month_ getting Loghain's blood off the stones in the palace's great hall, and that it's probably still stained even now."

Alara stared openly at that, clearly disturbed, but she covered it with a fraudulently disinterested smile. "Well, the man was a commoner who sought to steal a position that wasn't his by way of his daughter, who _also_ had no blood right to the throne once King Cailan had died, especially considering her peasant lineage made her barren. Hardly a good trait in a queen . . . so I can't say as I'm disappointed the man is dead. Let us hope that our king's _own_ peasant blood is but a droplet compared to Calenhad's lineage." Though such had not been Alara's words when both Loghain and Anora Mac Tir were living. "Still, the thought of such a _public_ beheading . . . ech!" She paused, thinking on the day's events. "Though I should reconcile myself to the fact that things could change. Do you really think he'll have his head cut off? I mean, it isn't like anyone _died_."

Marisol's eyes narrowed. "An assassination attempt, no matter if it failed and was poorly thought out, is _still_ an assassination attempt, and I wouldn't doubt it. Unless the king has something more brutal in mind, with the way he treats his wife . . ."

"What? You aren't suggesting he . . . _beats_ on the queen, surely." The blonde noblewoman tilted her head in the direction of the doorway, wishing they'd chosen a more secluded room to take, but you made use of what you could get.

Marisol shook her head, trying to look innocent even as she continued to whisper. "I'm not 'suggesting' _anything_, really, but I overhead some of Teagan's men talking, and apparently the king and queen had a rather large dispute with one another shortly before the hunt. Then one of my ladies told me she saw the queen running through the castle, crying her eyes out, clothes askew and a dreadfully poignant bruise showing where her collar gaped. It is doubtful she gave that bruise to _herself_, and with the rumors about the . . . _noises _they were making last night . . . maybe she is not a willing participant in _all_ the king tells her do."

"I cannot imagine the daughter of Bryce Cousland letting _anyone_ hit her, in that at least I can admire the woman, she does cut a strong figure. If he is beating her, she's become an expert at hiding it." Alara sat straighter in the seat as the noise of hurrying slippered feet sounded out in the hall. "Someone's coming!" She whispered to Marisol as the women waited pensively.

A maid scurried past, a tray of tea in her hands, nearly spilling it as Banness Rochforth hissed at her. Alara's ringed hand motioned the girl inside, almost amused at the servant's fearful, darting eyes. "What news is there? Why do you hurry so?"

The scullery maid set her tray down, revealing a small platter of sweet cheese tortes that smelled absolute divine to Lady Hascal, but she was watching her figure and didn't know who they were for besides.

"His Majesty is awake and Queen Gwyneth requested some food from the kitchens. Pardon me, Your Ladyships, but I have to be on my way." The girl took the tray again, as it wobbled precariously until she got her nervous hands under control, looking entirely too grateful when Alara Rochforth waved her off, smirking at her companion.

"Well, Marisol, it seems we shant guess much longer on Loren's fate. It should prove a . . . _revealing_ day."

* * *

"Stop fidgeting, I need to get this buttoned." Long fingers plucked at the king's vest, careful not to work too fiercely. The queen's eyes strayed to his right arm, done up in a white linen sling. Getting his shirt on had been a chore and a half, and yet Alistair had seemed to stay steady through _that_, glaring over Gwyneth's head and out the window, though at their distance from it, he couldn't see much. Once she'd moved on to his vest however, he acted more like a little boy that didn't want to get trussed up.

The pair of them had been relatively quiet once the king was up and about, having sat and discussed their plans while Gwyneth held out the sweet cheese tortes for him to eat, letting him hold his tea on his own. Alistair tried not to put any meaning behind her feeding him, only that she wasn't _utterly_ heartless and didn't want him hurting himself. It didn't keep him from _wishing_ that she might have cared a bit more than that, but after their argument, and the clutching of her own beliefs, he wasn't going to broach the subject any time soon. '_Wishes aren't horses after all, and they don't lead you off into the sunset of elusive happily ever afters_.'

No more than being a king was anything like the kind, golden rulers of fairytales. Alistair doubted any of _those _kings had ever punished a man for what they themselves believed was an accident. Gwyneth was right about one thing, though, Alistair knew that it had to be done. He tried excuses to make himself feel better, reasoning that if Zacharius Loren was really the pervert that rumor pegged him as, that he had it coming, but it didn't work. Mostly, because no matter what else the younger Loren brother had done, that wasn't what he was being punished for _that_ day. He fidgeted again, despite Gwyneth's curt command, and earned her hard stare.

"Alistair . . . "

"I don't see why we have to get redressed. Looking a little rumpled and bloody would make me seem sympathetic. You said the Bannorn should feel sorry for me, that it would help." He complained, almost reaching over with his left arm to scratch the right one, until a painful pull of sore muscles changed his mind.

"No, I did _not_. What I _said_, was that we must not appear too eager to deal out your judgment, that you must look sympathetic, yes, but in lieu of your decision and that you also must garner _their_ sympathy in return. They need to think you are justified and righteous in your proclamation of punishment, and also that you don't enjoy the idea of it, but that you are a strong man that is doing what he has to do. That isn't the same as 'feeling sorry for you', not by any means." Hands stilled their movements, as Gwyneth pressed her palms flat against his chest, running them down to flatten the rich blue quilted linen of it, buttons finally all fastened. Her mouth quirked, the corner of her eyes following. "What is it that you've planned? You said you didn't want to tell me, why not?"

"Because I know you, and you'll try and make it your own idea, giving me your 'advice' until I cave under and let you have your way." His words had a defeated toneless quality, but there was an active battleground in his eyes, angry and fighting and not easily forgetting how she'd backed both of them into an inescapable corner.

A roll of those kohl-lined eyes as she went to her vanity, checking herself in the reflection. "Oh yes, because you are _so _indulgent of me." As sarcastic as ever, but she turned back to him with renewed interest. "But honestly, what is it?"

"I will _not _order anyone to cut off his hands." Alistair was stern, moving to check his own reflection, noting that the sling didn't look as bad as he'd thought.

Gwyneth's mirror image smirked beside his. "You have to admit, its a better solution than cutting off his _head_."

"Barely, and when I asked what you would have me do, that certainly wasn't what I had in mind. Leave it alone, Gwyn, you'll find out when everyone else does." His face was as hard as stone, the only expression, whatever was sneaking out of a pair of dark brown eyes, widened on her surprised face.

She turned to him, lip curling to show the smooth pink of the tender skin inside. "You mean to place me in the same level of importance as the rest of them out there? I'm on _your _side!"

"No, Gwyn, you're _at_ my side, not _on_ it."

Before she could respond, open mouth reminding him of a fish, a manservant interrupted them, Alistair going to the door with heavy footsteps, blocking Gwyneth from doing so for him. _He _wasn't _going to look like a helpless child_. "Yes?"

The man waiting on the other side dropped a quick bow, looking at his king without looking _too_ long. He cleared his throat, making a proud scene with his posture. "At the request of Bann Tarquin Loren, I am sent with his utmost apologies and his desire for a private discussion with Your Majesty at My Highness' leisure. Though Milord Loren does bade you to speak with him at Bann Teagan's private study, which he has requested use of, before Your Majesty makes a ruling for Lord Zacharius Loren on today's unfortunate events."

Alistair wrinkled his nose, almost snarling before he caught the manservant's wary face, and refrained, but his tone was still irritated. "If he's so sorry, why are _you_ standing in front of my door, instead of _him_? Is your lord a coward?"

Behind him, Gwyneth smiled briefly, a secret enjoyment in the fact that Alistair's biting question was very much what she herself would've asked. '_He's learning_.'

Stuttering over an explanation, the man shuffled his feet before answering. "No, no of course not, Your Majesty. Bann Loren simply wishes to observe proper court protocol, and not look unseemly to Your Greatness."

Alistair wasn't sure what to say, not really able to argue with the man's words. Finally he sighed. "Fine, fine, tell Bann Loren that I will speak to him in the hour, and no later, and if he isn't there, then I'll make my ruling against his brother, regardless of any 'discussion'. Also inform _Bann_ Loren that I _gave_ him that title, and if he has it in his head to take another shot at me, his _brother_ won't be his first concern."

The servant nodded, throat bobbing nervously, before he bowed again and was off to deliver the message. Alistair turned back into the room, to find Gwyneth with her hands on her hips. "For Andraste's sake, what is it _now_? Wasn't that answer angry enough for you? Maybe I should have asked the servants for some tea and your raspberry tortes to be brought to the study."

"Don't be sarcastic, Alistair, you aren't very good at it, and you shouldn't be going to speak with Tarquin Loren _at all_! Especially without any guardsmen." She let her posture relax back into a table, the wooden edge pressed just below her butt, not _quite_ sitting on it. "I won't have you putting yourself in harm's way again."

"Maybe you haven't noticed, with all the little conniving thoughts in that pretty head of yours, but I'm a grown man, I don't need you mothering me!" He yelled.

"You behave less like a man grown and more like a child in a man's body, with all this petulant behavior, and the insane desire to purposely put yourself in questionably safe situations!" She yelled back.

Alistair and Gwyneth faced off against each other, their nostrils even flaring like Antivan bulls when they locked horns, stamping hooves into the dirt and snorting angrily. Finally the king relented, though he certainly didn't look as cowed under by concession as he had been before. "You know what? That's just fine, have it your way, I'll take Ser William with me. _He_ can certainly be trusted, unless you've come up with some elaborate paranoia that suggests otherwise."

"I resent the implication that my regard for your safety could ever been seen as _paranoia_. Maybe you should try caring about it yourself, since it seems that now you'd walk into a pit of snakes to prove a point." If it were possible for a human being to become a living wall, Gwyneth had managed it, the angry passion that would have typically been behind those words, left somewhere still locked behind her teeth. Only her eyes betrayed the notion that she was hurt by that accusation, as she had continued to be hurt all that day, but the admittance of such wasn't forthcoming.

"Oh, I care plenty about my own safety, but maybe I've come to not care at all for _your_ resentment or what does or doesn't make _you_ happy." He sneered, unaware that the way he was covering his hurts with animosity wasn't so far from what his wife was feeling, but neither of them made an effort to see past it. Alistair met her stern and displeased gaze with one of his. "It matters even less than my _own _happiness, which as it turns out, doesn't seem to matter much either."

She flinched, but stood her ground. "Happiness, whether yours or mine, isn't nearly as important as making the right impression and never showing your weaknesses. For too long have the Bannorn proven to have more clout over the king than _he_ has had over _them_, for too long their sense of superiority has gone unchecked, unchallenged, and as much as you need them on your side, so too do you need to change the way business is done here. Remind them that you are a king in more than name, that you repay their fealty, but so too any notions of treachery. If you insist on speaking with Tarquin, don't let him make you see him and his brother as more deserving of mercy than they are. Their father was married to Banness Landra, my mother's friend, and when Howe murdered my household, they were there and Tarquin's father did _nothing _to avenge them. Instead he allied with Loghain, and helped supply him with some of the men that tried to kill _us _in Lothering. Remember that, Alistair, and know that Tarquin is likely just as aware of that as _you_ are."

"I'm hardly likely to forget someone trying to murder me, now am I? Not that I can say the same for _you_, cozying up to that Antivan like you were the best of friends." It was an old wound, and an even older argument, but he'd struck a nerve. He could see the proof of that in the snarling curl of her mouth, already beginning to defend the elven assassin as she'd frequently done during the Blight.

"He was a worthy addition to our . . .!"

"He was a lecherous, backstabbing, son of a whore that only wanted two things out of life, killing people for profit and bedding as many conquests as he could! The only reason he didn't want to kill you, was because he kept hoping you'd invite him to the space between your thighs! He must have really thought you were something, to hold out for _that_ long." A small voice at the back of his head told Alistair that he was the last person that should remark on someone's unfortunate birth, or complain about said someone wanting to get between Gwyneth's thighs, but he couldn't recall his manners and certainly didn't have the will to engage in them.

"Maybe he did want that, and maybe he didn't, but that was just his way. Besides, when I told him I wasn't interested, he respected that and didn't make me feel like less than a person!" There was an accusation that wasn't said, and she would've smiled when that hit its mark, Alistair's face crumpling for a brief second, but Gwyneth was fixated on the task at hand. "Zevran may have been all of those things, but at least he knew what it was to be a man. _You_ would hand over your pride to Loren if he whined enough about how much his brother is sorry, that it was all just an accident!" Gwyneth wasn't going to get dragged along with Alistair's desire to embarrass her, and she knew it for what it was, because she had been guilty of doing the same thing before.

"You'd like that wouldn't you? To see me weak, and crawling around, begging for you to come save me from my own stupidity. Well, bully for you. I'm not going to stand down from my decision, not for anything. That doesn't mean that I don't have any sympathy at all for someone that really _did_ commit an accident." One of his broad hands was on the door, and he could feel it shake from the vibrations of his angry movements, body rigid with self disgust and boiling rancor.

"You don't know that it was! And, so what? You'll just walk in there and let him talk you into sparing his brother? Because that's what you do, Alistair, you feel sorry for others and let them make a fool out of you." Gwyneth's eyes less rolled, and more strayed skyward, as if asking the Maker to send her a better husband, and the intent of her expression didn't go unnoticed.

He shook his head, a quiet rage seething from between his teeth, the words colder than he meant them, but no less angry. "No, Gwyneth, I _used_ to feel sorry for others and I _used_ to let them make a fool out of me, but no one could've done a better job of spitting in my face than _you _have. So, while I may not have anything to show for this joke of a marriage, at least I learned something, never take anyone at face value!"

With that last dig, he was out the door, slamming it behind him and nearly making Gwyneth jump. She stared hotly at the door, but in lieu of wishing she could set it on fire by looking at it, and Alistair's backside along with it, there was little to be done. Little, except, to go out and speak with the wives of the Bannorn and gauge just how badly an image she had made of herself that afternoon.

_'What a bloody mess this is turning out to be_!' She had to get control of herself, because it was clear she'd lost that control with Alistair, but her temper flared and once that happened, some of her sense burned away with it. '_Keep calm and carry on_.' She repeated the same thing over and over as she made to collect herself, sitting in front of the vanity and planning out strategies.

"_The irrational man is never the victor, Fergus, remember that, and if you must lose your temper at least try to use it to your advantage_." Words from Bryce Cousland, spoken to Gwyneth's brother shortly before a tourney in which Fergus had been competing against Nathaniel Howe, the two young men all but despising each other. The advice in her memory may not have been for her, but she took it anyway, holding in a breath and letting it out slowly.

"He'll do it." She told her reflection. "He'll be steadfast this time, just have faith and don't waver." But self assurances didn't take away the niggling worry that she may have pushed just a bit too far, but done was done, and Gwyneth had nothing to do but plan how she could help him.

_"You're _at _my side, not _on_ it." _Alistair had told her, but he was wrong. Gwyneth only hoped he realized it eventually.

* * *

Black of mood, and feeling the least sympathetic that Alistair could ever remember in his whole life, he stalked his way through Teagan's halls, face set into a grimace that sent any curious servants to turn away. His shoulder was a dull, throbbing reminder of why Gwyneth was right, and why Alistair hated himself for knowing it was so. There could be no amnesty, and though his gut roiled at the thought, the young king knew he wouldn't back down. His mind and will, for once, were a set match and he was consumed with the duty of that.

Tarquin had kept his temper, hadn't cried out or railed, surprisingly accepting (and Alistair thought, a bid coldly as well) that his brother had to be punished. The new bann asked only that Zacharius was honest in his regret, as the accident was a true one, and that the king find it in his heart to be lenient. Alistair had nodded, placating the other man, even as he knew Tarquin wouldn't be so happy with what was decided.

He wondered what they would say, the banns, what they might think. _Would they believe him to be a tyrant?_ Alistair was no fool, he knew what happened to tyrant kings who closed their fists around more power than they should be allowed. Gwyneth seemed to think that this time, his mercy would make him look weak . . . and weak kings were labeled 'The Defeated' and let Orlesian invaders take their crown and their country. Alistair didn't know what he wanted his own label to be, but certainly not one he'd have to share with his disgraced great grandfather.

Calenhad, the Silver Knight, and the first of the Theirin dynasty, believed in an eye for an eye. Though vanishing and leaving behind his own responsibilities, was perhaps not any better an example of exemplary leadership than King Brandel had presented, but King Calenhad certainly had been no slouch when it came to dealing out judgment. It was old justice that had become tempered in current societies by more modern views, but remained favorable in some courts. The great library had been filled with such books written on the subject, more so even than Alistair's mind had been filled with the knowledge they gave him. He'd read of how it was a respected punishment, fair and just in some cases, without going so far as execution.

_'But can I do this? Can _I_ really do this?' _He asked of himself, and he heard Duncan's voice in his mind, the memory of it so clear as to make Alistair ache anew with the loss of his mentor, his savior.

_"We do what we must, duty doesn't always ask of us the easiest decisions, that's why it's called duty and not, say . . ."_

_"Fun and games?" Alistair had smirked at the Warden Commander, Duncan offering him a lopsided smile._

_"Quite, lad . . . quite." The commander's eyes had taken on that long, lost look they often did, causing Alistair to wonder where Duncan's mind went on such lengthy trips as his eyes made. But he never asked and Duncan never said. That smile was there once more, indulgent and full of a warmth that Alistair hadn't realized he'd craved, until he had been bestowed with it. "As a Grey Warden, you may have to do things that you'd rather not, things that stay in the shadows of your mind long after you've committed them. I can't lie to you and say that this life is only for good souls, but it _is_ only for _strong _souls, and that's what we have to be. Strong and willing to do whatever it takes, in the face of our duty. No matter what happens at Ostagar, you remember that, Alistair."_

_The newest Warden in that collection had shrunk back a bit at the shattering of one of his happier illusions, but he nodded, then covered that discomfort with a cheeky grin. "You make it sound all 'doom' and 'gloom' It's not all _that_ dire, is it?"_

_Duncan seemed lost again, nodding slowly in return. "Sometimes, Alistair, sometimes it's _very_ dire."_

Whatever it took, and that's what he'd do . . . but Alistair's own resolve didn't make him feel any better for it, and as he came around a bend in the halls, William carefully keeping pace behind him, he put out a hand. "A moment, Ser William, I need a moment to think."

"Of course, Your Majesty."

"Alone."

"But, My King . . ."

"Go tell Her Majesty to meet me in the kitchen garden, and make certain everyone knows we aren't to be disturbed." Three entrances, the two off the covered veranda and the one door leading into the kitchens themselves. It would be easy enough to get some much needed fresh air, while still having some privacy. "Thank you, Ser William."

The First Knight hadn't conceded yet, worried still for his king's safety, but he couldn't neglect an order, and he finally nodded, shoulders slumped. "Yes, Your Majesty. It is my duty to serve."

_'Duty . . .' _The troubled sovereign thought, as he pressed his back to the worn stone and carved wooden bracings of the wall behind him. _'What an awful word.' _

When he reached the center kitchen garden_, _one of the objects of his _own_ duty was leaning with one hand against the grey wall, looking down to peruse some broad lettuce 'd been quick in getting to the garden, or Alistair's angry stalking through the halls had taken longer than he thought. She hadn't noticed him yet, more intent on her study of the lettuce, and Alistair took the rare opportunity to watch his wife without her knowing it.

She was never meant to be a warrior, and it wasn't nearly as obvious as it was when Gwyneth was in a gown. Her frame almost made for the garment, her pose always certain and sure. The elaborate attire she chose would've been a burden on Alistair, such as he had complained about what she'd chosen for _him_, but to Gwyneth, such was almost her armor, at least as much as chain and plate were for Alistair. She gave no sign of looking out of sorts, even thinking she was alone, Gwyneth's face was set into a calm one of self assurance.

He could never look that assured, but she would always want him to. There was the problem.

"Ahem!" Clearing his throat to gain her attention, watching as she looked up, the blank welcoming stare that she gave everyone became a hard one of severity. "You got here in a hurry."

"Pardon?" Gwyneth quirked a brow at him, arms folding across her ribs. "I was _already_ here."

"You mean . . . Ser William didn't tell you this was where I wanted to meet?"

"No. I just came from a . . . _nice_, chat with some of the ladies, and wanted a bit of air before going out to the courtyard with you." An unpleasant discovery made, in that no matter her propriety most of the time, her actions when Alistair had been shot were going to create a lot more clever planning on her part to make them forget the incident. She paused, tilting her head to the right of her. "The lettuce has a healthy look, I was thinking to suggest some garden salad later."

"Already planning dinner?"

She shrugged. "Someone has to, though I find that Teagan has done a decent enough job so far. You've spoken with Loren, then?"

While it may have been the queen's intention to surprise Alistair with that question, he found his footing quickly. "I did."

"And?"

"It changes nothing." Dark brown eyes were darker still on her face, and he felt victorious when her assured facade melted away long enough that he could see his new resolution frightened her. _'Good, it's no more than she deserves!'_

"Well, that's . . . I'm glad to hear that." Gwyneth managed, every inch of her tall frame gone stiff as she tried to maintain her calm. She had wanted him to be more certain of himself, but she didn't care at all for the shadows darkening in his gaze, or the way his body language still all but hummed with suppressed rage.

"Are you?" Even his tone was like a coiled snake, as he walked closer, as if willing her to take a step back, but she didn't. That defiant chin held out at an angle that made him want nothing more than to kiss her senseless, and then leave her standing there, as confused and frustrated as she made him feel earlier. But instead he only offered his arm, a practiced notion of social graces rather than a real offer of friendship, but she took it, if not tentatively.

"Yes, of course I am. So, you're ready to announce your decision?"

"We've waited long enough, don't you think?" His brows came together and he could feel his own anger wanting to bleed out from the eyes beneath them, but he managed to keep himself together. Alistair didn't wait for an answer. "You will stand by my decision, no matter what it is?"

"Alistair . . . if you would just _tell_ me, then I could . . ." She tried again, but he wasn't having it, and Gwyneth almost bit her tongue to silence herself when he glared at her, voice gone low enough to almost be a whisper.

"Will you stand by my decision, Gwyneth? Yes or no?"

"I . . . of course, of course I will. I could do no other." She smiled at him, trying to find a way to bridge the gap she'd placed between them, but her answer was all he had sought out. Once he had it, Alistair's face turned away from her. His head was held high and straight, as she'd coached him many times. Both shoulders possessed excellent posture and his stride was long and certain.

He was the perfect image of a strong king, and Gwyneth wanted to feel glad for it, but instead she felt a little uneasy.

* * *

"His Majesty, King Alistair Theirin!" The servant raised his voice so it could be heard clearly across the courtyard, echoing off the cobbled stones, and lending a backdrop to the noises of surprise and tense breathing of the collected nobility.

They gathered there, looking up the distance provided by the stairs, to their king and liege lord. To the man that had saved Ferelden from a Blight and kept the country from falling into civil war. The expectations on such a man were great, and some of the Bannorn sought to find a weakness they could exploit for their own gain, but standing there, they could see none.

He was not unlike a tower of a man, strongly built and defying attempts to be brought down, dark brown eyes falling on them from on high, his face pulling tight as if readying for an unpleasant battle. There was sympathy to be found there as well, as King Alistair found the Loren brothers in the small crowd, clearing his throat. His queen stood, resplendent and equally resolute, her right hand clasped tightly in his left as the other was done up in a sling, but even for that, it was hard to say he looked weak, and Her Majesty seemed proud to be at his side, proud and perhaps a touch relieved.

Though none there knew the truth behind the masks their sovereigns wore, and as the king spoke, the illusion was complete.

"Good people of the Bannorn, my Banns and Bannesses, my Lords and Ladies of Ferelden, it is as your king that I address you today, but also as a fellow countryman. We are Fereldans and we are a strong people, who have to rely on our own sense of honor to see the day through into the next. It was this faith in ourselves that led us to victory against the usurpers that tried to take our lands from us, and even when the decisions we made were difficult, we stood by them, because if we hadn't, we might not have won." The speech had been planned without Gwyneth's assistance, and he felt her fingers tighten in his as he spoke, probably worried about that, but it seemed to garner an appreciative murmur of agreement from the people it was meant for. "Today, I find myself standing by a decision that brings me no joy or comfort, but it is necessary if I am to serve you all to the best of my abilities."

You could've heard a pin drop on the stones for all the tense, waiting breathing of the nobility, a crow overhead breaking that silence as all of them strained their ears on the king's words. Zacharius Loren tensed up, his brother placing a comforting hand at his shoulder, but neither of them spoke.

"Today I was injured in a hunt, and while some may have placed intent on the man responsible for shooting me, _I_ do not." Alistair turned to nod his head at both Loren men, the Bann offering a nod back even as his brother was too frightened for that. Beside him, Gwyneth grew tense again, and he knew that despite his assurances, she still was suspicious that he would back down. She'd never believe him capable on his own, and he knew that now. His fingers clamped down almost painfully on hers as he went on. "I understand and accept that it was an accident, but it was an accident that has left me injured and affects my ability to rule this country, and even though it isn't dire, any injury against me, as your king, is an injury sustained by Ferelden itself. So saying, despite the fact that I will _not_ be claiming high treason for this accidental and unfortunate incident, neither can I abstain from any punishment whatsoever."

One of the Attenbury lords nudged his brother in shoulder, having bet against the king beheading Zacharius, and taking a moment to gloat over his victory. Zacharius himself sagged in relief to know that he wasn't going to be killed, and though he was to be punished, it seemed it wouldn't be anything that terrible . . . and then all fell to silence as the king made the proclamation of his judgment.

"It must be understood that this _cannot _happen again. The next time, I may not be able to be so lenient, and today Lord Zacharius Loren has to pay for his mistake, so he might not take it so lightly when he is next on a hunt with the King of Ferelden." Alistair's lungs felt tight and painful, his head pounding. He thought he was going to be ill, and his hand went slack in Gwyneth's, until she gripped it tightly, rubbing across his thumb in slow circles, until he found his breath again. "As I've been injured, so too will Lord Loren be injured, so that he can feel my discomfort and know it for what it is. My judgment is punishment for accidental treason against the Crown of Ferelden, by way of a hot crossbow bolt, recently held in an armorer's flames, to make certain it scars as I will be scarred, as Lord Zacharius is shot in the right shoulder as I have been shot. To insure no foul play, Bann Tarquin Loren is to take the crossbow in hand himself, so we all will see that the aim is true, and made for no other purpose than the dispensing of the king's justice, my own."

A ripple of shock went through the small crowd, Zacharius almost passing out as he sagged against his sibling with a disbelieving cry. Tarquin went livid. "You _cannot_ do this! I will _not_ shoot my own brother! You said yourself it was an accident! This is no justice at all, this is a vendetta!"

Bann Ferrenly Strathclyde cleared his throat, the aging lord on high of Strathmore looking sympathetic. "Here now, lad, you were given the title of Bann, were you not? There is no vendetta here. His Majesty would've been in every right to claim Lord Zacharius' head, if he were so inclined. I think you should be grateful that our king proves a magnanimous man, who is both strong in his beliefs and compassionate towards his subjects."

"Would _you_ be grateful if he ordered you to shoot one of your _sons_? It could've just as easily been them that made such a mistake as my brother did!"

"But it wasn't, it was your brother, and I would honor my king, and not decry him, as a loyal servant to Ferelden and its highest regency."

The two banns glared at each other, as the king looked on, raising his voice. "I have made my decision, will you refuse to abide by it? To refuse is to commit treason yourself, and your _own_ position to do so couldn't be seen as an accident." He narrowed his eyes down on Tarquin, the bann looking up at him, boiling with hatred.

"No! No, Tarquin! Don't do this to me! Don't shoot me!" Zacharius screamed as two of the king's knights came over to grab his arms, even as he tried to fight them. "No!"

Tarquin closed his eyelids, looking wretched and feeling worse. He glanced back to his brother, shoulders slumping, before turning back to watch the king's impassive face. "I will abide by the king's ruling."

"_No_! I didn't mean it! Please! _Please_, Your Majesty! _Your Majesty_!" Zacharius shrieked as the knights held both his arms, keeping him upright.

"Then I encourage you to have good aim." Alistair didn't waver, Gwyneth just as stiff beside him. As the bann only nodded, moving away, the king commanded the rest of them to do the same. "Clear the courtyard, off to the sides. We are all together as one people in Ferelden, and I ask you that you all remain _as_ one people, to watch this. Those women with small children may be excused."

Lady Aubrey Strathclyde had been hoping to cement a friendship with the new queen, and sought out the other woman's gaze, nodding her head and keeping her place beside her husband. She sent her youngest sister by marriage, the twelve year old Lady Cybil, to take her young son back to the castle, where they'd stay for the duration of Loren's punishment.

Banness Alara Rochforth, who had so doubted the young king's strength, found herself surprisingly ready to quit the courtyard, hurrying away to collect her two little girls. Her husband didn't bother to convince her otherwise, moving to stand beside the collected group of Hascals. The queen favored them, and it seemed the safest place to be.

Banness Victoria Pontifax looked like she was about ready to faint, looking up at the man she had tried to seduce with new and unbelieving eyes. Her husband looked equally spooked, but was holding himself together better than she was. "Osborne, my love, do you think I might be similarly excused?" Her stomach dropped when he shook his head.

"No dear, we must all prove our loyalty by remaining." A calming hand slid around her waist, and though Victoria wasn't often of a mind to cuddle her husband, she pressed herself against his ample frame, her face against the lapels of his waistcoat.

"I can't watch this, I just _can't_." She whispered against the brocaded fabric of her husband's attire. He kissed the top of hair, rubbing the small of her back.

"Close your eyes then, love, but by the Maker you _must_ stay standing." He encouraged, whispering in kind, and she nodded.

Zacharius hadn't stopped screaming and flailing, even as the knights carried him between two of the statues that ran at either side of the cobbled walkway. They removed his coat, and then his shirt, leaving his chest bared to the damp, cool air of the Bannorn. Long twined rope that had been used on the king's own cargo wagon, was tied about the lord's wrists, securing him tightly between the statues, where when his legs might give out, his secured wrists would keep him painfully upright. The knights moved back at the king's order, as he wanted them far enough away that Tarquin couldn't 'accidentally' hit them instead of his brother.

Teagan's armorer had been prepared by way of His Majesty's First Knight and brought the red hot bolt over in a pair of steel pinchers and a thick glove, the heavy crossbow carried under his right arm. He approached Bann Tarquin cautiously, bending down with some difficulty on a knee made sore with age. "Milord."

Tarquin closed his eyes and took a shuddering breath, nodding as the armorer put the hot bolt into the crossbow, offering it up to the young bann.

Teagan watched his armorer and the other bann, feeling as if he was dreaming and when he looked up at his adopted nephew, that feeling became more intense. _None of this could be real, Alistair wouldn't decide something like this _. . . but he had, and Bann Guerrein could do nothing but stay true to the decision, for both Alistair's sake and his own.

The queen felt her stomach give an uneasy lurch, her heart beating erratically in her chest. She'd wanted Zacharius to be beheaded, and then to have his hands cut off. In comparison, this was quite a bit more humane and Gwyneth could admit that much, but she hadn't thought about what it would actually _be like _to punish Lord Loren in person, where she could hear his wailing, watch his brother look at him as if he was about to commit the worst evil he could ever think of . . . and Alistair, cold and silent. She stared up at him, eyes wide in something very akin to horror. Never would she have expected he'd do this, come to _this _decision, it was something Gwyneth wouldn't have described as in the man's character. Yet, here they were, and she was immensely proud, but also very much afraid of just how much Alistair could do when he was put to mind of it. More than she had hoped, more than she had imagined, and more than she feared.

_'Isn't this what you wanted?' _A snide, wicked voice in her head teased, but Gwyneth wasn't sure of her answer. Still, she remained true to her promises, staying at his side, both physically and in the spirit of union.

Tarquin took the crossbow, raising it with both hands, willing his trembling fingers to remain steady on the trigger. The curve of the aiming ridge held his brother's image in a half-bowl of iron, where the younger of the last two Lorens was still screaming for his brother to help him. His eyes squinted together, stinging tears gathering there. "I'm sorry, Zach, I'm so sorry."

Everyone waited, breath held and not so much as daring to move, and then Tarquin pulled the trigger. It made a small whistling sound as it traveled that short distance, so fast that many of the nobles couldn't even see it, and then it hit the target, an awful wet noise that none of them would soon forget. Zacharius Loren screamed, trying to reel back in agony, blood quickly running down his right side. Tarquin dropped the crossbow, falling to his knees on the cobblestones before he had gathered himself and ran towards his brother, untying his wrists and not caring if the king protested.

Alistair blinked, holding back a wave of bile, and called for the physician that had attended to his own injuries. Zacharius wouldn't have to wait as long as he did, but it didn't make the king feel any better. He almost _pulled_ Gwyneth in the keep next to him, leaving the Bannorn behind with a curt. "Dismissed."

Once inside he took a turn for one of the side doors that led to the back practice yard. Gwyneth was breathing heavily, forced to run in her heels to keep up with the bruising pace he'd set. "Alistair . . . Alistair, that was . . ."

"When the mage healer from the Tower gets here, have them sent up to our room, but I don't want to see you before then. I don't want to see anyone!" He barked at her and she flinched, almost moving him to apologize . . . almost. Surprisingly she said nothing in return, stomping off to prove her anger, but Alistair hardly cared. Right then, all that consumed him, was what he'd just done.

Outside the keep, and held in the shadows of it, he took a deep breath, hung his head between his knees, and threw up.


	45. Chapter 45: Healing Hands

**Disclaimer:** _"Dragon Age: Origins" and all its expansions and additional content is the property of Bioware and EA Games. Large portions of written content within the game, as well as Dragon's Age: The Stolen Throne, and Dragon's Age: Calling, are the creation of David Gaider. Original scenarios and characters are used under the creative license of the writer, ItalianEmpress1985. No profit is being made and the following story is for entertainment purposes only_

**Words From The Author: **_New character this chapter. Used the default name for her, and I thought this would be a good time to bring her in and I hope she's enjoyed. You know, a woman who ISN'T conniving and stuck up. :p Also introducing another of His Majesty's knights, though a minor character (so far), this one named after a certain wall in ancient Britannia._

_Also, I'll be gone for about a week and a half on vacation with the boyfriend, from the first of October, and won't have a lot of access to a computer, but I'm going to try and kick it old school with an ACTUAL pen and an ACTUAL notebook. ZOMG! :O So, I think I might be able to do some writing in my down time out there. Though the next update won't be until I get back, so fair warning and all that._

_Might be a few more drabbles from me, they're good practice for beating back any attacking writers-block muggers. Speaking of, there are more bits for both the Urthemiel/Gwyn and Alistair/Gwyn drabbles that are out there. If you are interested, you can always find them through my profile under 'stories' If not, than enjoy this chapter, FnF will appreciate it, I'm sure. :p_

_There's some broken up peasant speech in this chapter, I wanted to test out writing 'rural accents' in a way that you'd be able to read how they sound. Just in case anyone was worried that I went nuts and started missing keys while I typed. Though that 'does' happen sometimes. :p_

_Thank you for stopping in. Watch out for low flying dragons!_

* * *

_**Chapter Forty Five:**_

**Healing Hands**

* * *

**H**igh sun had passed, the dip of that orb resting at the far off horizon, teases of orange peaking up over the distant Frostback Mountains. The splash of color on the dark crests of Lake Calenhad made Solona Amell feel like the sun was trying desperately to hold onto Thedas, only to be pulled ever farther away by the deepening night, whose shadowed wings had already enveloped the distancing Kinloch Hold at its base.

Dark brown eyes were almost black in the shadows of the circle tower, and of the young mage's own cowl, drawn close to her face as if she was hiding in it, which she could admit she might have been. The boat dipped, and her knuckles gripped the sides of it, the shape of the thing reminding her a little too much of the illustrations of coffins she'd seen in a book on Nevarra's burial practices.

The ferryman threw her a watery smile over one shoulder, Kester by name, and she tried to smile back. He was amicable enough, but still wary, though the mage supposed she ought not blame him. After the Blight, the tower had sat, eerily quiet, everyone on edge in the wake of the destruction they'd nearly faced. It might have been better if the darkspawn had proved the cause, but instead it had been a threat from within, and such things always made a person more uneasy. When one of your own, lost his mind, and brought demons forth to all but devour the holding that you had always known as your only home, to kill those mages that wouldn't go along with him, and even more depravities against the templars that were suppose to protect everyone from such demons . . . _yes, that was most unsettling indeed_. Uldred's madness had nearly destroyed them _all_. That's what little _she_ knew, and she imagined the _ferryman _knew even less. Someone once said that ignorance was bliss, but they were wrong. Your worst nightmares were born of the seeds of doubt, the darkness inherent in not knowing.

It was that same fear of the unknown that Solona now found herself cowering from. She'd had days where she had dreamt of living outside the influence of the circle tower, but they were flights of fancy. _This_, was something altogether different, and entirely foreboding.

She had been called to perform healing services for the King of Ferelden, who was currently in Rainesfere, they told her, but little beyond that. Solona also knew she would be watched carefully, and once her work was performed, it was back to Kinloch Hold and the historical studies she'd been teaching to young apprentices. If she said something wrong, did something offensive to the nobility, _who knew what could happen? _Uncertainty made her cower in the hood of her cloak, the scratchy gray of the wool rubbing against her cheek, as a long braid of rich brown fell out, the ties she had it in, frayed at the ends and catching the breeze across the lake.

Solona hadn't been anywhere outside the tower, beyond its own walled gardens, since she had been brought there as a small child. The lake around them was always more like a black pit, than anything one could glide over to escape. A temptation ever present, but only that, because she was never like those few daring mages that had managed it, only to be dragged back to face punishment in the high tower, or worse.

Her friend, Jowan, had been one such person. His desperation to be out of the hold, to be free to be who he wanted, love who he wanted, had led him to blood magic . . . and now he was dead. It wasn't as if she hadn't understood. Sometimes she'd look up at Ser Cullen, remembering how they used to smile at one another, secret little smiles that only they knew, but Cullen didn't smile anymore. All that was left of him was a hole filled with melancholy and the waking dreams of whatever demons still haunted him. But she understand Jowan's pleas, even if she didn't agree with him.

He'd come to her, full of plots to escape, asked her as his friend to help him, but Solona could not. Instead he'd gone to see the more brash Neria Surana, who Solona suspected of harboring a crush on their rebellious Jowan. That hadn't gone well, and though they both managed to escape she doubted either of them lived now.

_'The templars are thorough.'_

That's what Commander Greagoir had said at the end of every inquiry she'd attempted to make, and asking had put her under a level of suspicion that only Irving's passionate defense had protected her from. She was a twitchy, odd sort, who often whispered to herself in long hallways or under her breath at the morning sermons, but Irving said none of that was proof that Mistress Amell couldn't be trusted.

So she sat, and graded papers, and taught history and herbalist lore on alternate Fridays. If in a year she had shown no signs of causing a problem, Solona would be reevaluated and perhaps allowed to teach the healing arts. She was one of the best healers they had, and it seemed a great pity in life to not continue her talents and pass them on to others of similar leanings.

But none of that was what had dragged her from her papers, and now had her leaving the tower behind.

Knight Commander Greagoir had the templars collect her just as she'd been in the middle of grading assignments, too tell her of an assignment all her own. She hadn't thought to ask how they'd gotten word so soon, but it was probably a note sent via hawk or the like. The King of Ferelden had been injured, and though he had been treated by a physician, it was the request of The Crown that he be seen to by a healer, and since Rainesfere was less than a day's journey by horseback, they'd sent for one at Kinloch Hold. Her. '_The bloody King of all bloody Ferelden!' _Though those were more her thoughts, than Greagoir's words. His face dour, and serious, full of lines that suggested more great strain than great age.

Solona Amell could hardly complain too much, it wasn't as if she'd been mistreated, in fact, if she had been a more daring person, the young enchanter would say that Greagoir had acted almost gelded since the Blight had wound down. His age was showing more, and he seemed too tired to get himself as angrily worked up as he used to. Senior Enchanter Irving had suffered a similar fate, but managed to argue the tenants with the senior templar on regular occasion.

Looking at the docks, feeling the bump of the boat as it lightly connected, she should have been able to enjoy this brief foray. Not freedom in its entirety, but still, a chance to know what freedom _might_ taste like, and still, the young enchanter found herself cautious.

She knew nothing of how people behaved outside the circle tower, and even less about nobility. They had said she was from a once-noble line herself, the granddaughter of a noblewoman exiled after birthing a mage child, but such things meant little to her, even if she was grateful to know _that_ much. Most apprentices knew a great deal less.

Kester tied the boat up, bones in his neck cracking as he twisted them. Solona winced at the sound, but kept her face ambivalent as the old ferryman bent to offer her a hand out. "Here you are lass, if you feel a bit queasy after the ride, bend over and put your head between your knees for a moment. Always works for _me_."

"Thank you, Master Kester." She took the proffered hand, holding on to a small rucksack as if it were her lifeline, her head feeling woozy.

"Bah, ain't no _masters_ around _here_, girl. Just Kester'll do fine." He coughed, moving aside to check the knot he had just made. Friendly, but not too much, _because you could never be sure about those mage-types._

Solona only nodded, looking to find the templar that would escort her, but the armored man that stood beside her mount didn't look like one. The only one of their order there was Ser Carroll.

He winked at her, _hideous lech_, as she clambered off the boat, almost stumbling over her robes. "Heard you get to ride a horse, must not have any experience with _riding_, I figure."

"Do you _figure_ that, Ser Carroll? I'm sure I'll manage." She held her head high, that dark braid swinging as she looked up at what was to be her mount, the rather severe looking armored man holding the reins. Built like a mountain, his height was at least just as intimidating as riding for the first time would be, if not more so. Though she was on the small side, and built with a dainty frame, she hadn't thought to be intimidated by a horse. She'd seen plenty of them in illustrations, but the large brown steed before her was a frightening thing. Suddenly, Solona wasn't so sure at all.

"Mistress Amell? I'll be riding with you, to make sure you don't run away of course. His Majesty has a need for your . . . _abilities_, and I mean to see you arrive there in short order." The gruff man cleared his throat, a helm tucked under one arm, chest plate emblazoned with two golden mabari. "So, if you are all settled, I'll help you up and we'll be on our way."

_Together, they were to ride . . . together_. Solona swallowed a lump in her throat, offering a tiny smile that wasn't returned. "If I may, you don't look like a templar, why would they send _you_ to watch me?"

That got a reaction, the tall chestnut haired man straightening his back, fixing her with an eerie set of green eyes. "I am Ser Hadrian, of His Majesty's Knights of Denerim. It may be true that I am not a templar, but His Majesty trained as one and we have trained with _him_, and it is very true that templar or no, I have every means and wherewithal to cut the head off a snake when I think it's ready to bite me." He huffed, offering Solona a hand that wasn't particularly friendly, but still managed to be surprisingly cordial. _A gentleman, even when addressing a mage_. "If there are no other questions . . . "

She picked up where he left off, the meaning clear, and shook her head. "Ah, n-no, no I think I'm fine." Whether she _was_ fine, remained to be seen.

* * *

There was a pattering of light rain, the moon still visible above their heads, shining down in odd patches where the sparse clouds kept moving across it. Gwyneth looked up, elbows resting on the stone balustrades of the back balcony to Teagan's practice yard. A straw dummy waved at her when the wind caught, its hay-swollen torso showing signs of wear and tear. She took a long sip of her wine, the dry vintage making her clack her tongue against the roof of her mouth. '_I've had better_.' But she'd rather drink dry wine any day instead of piss warm ale. She took another sip, mind heavy with a lot more than what spirits she would've preferred.

"Majesty." Teagan's voice ventured, almost cautiously, footsteps soon following to the sound of the balcony doors closing, the thick wood settling back into the stone frame.

She didn't turn around, merely tilted her glass at him in greeting, eyes locked on to the sky. "Bann Guerrein. Pleasant enough evening, isn't it, all things considered?"

"I suppose, if you don't mind the air being so wet."

"Bah, a little light mist never hurt anyone. Besides, I'm a Coastland girl, if its not damp and uncomfortable we aren't happy." She smirked, turning to look at him at last, when he drew up next to her, arms at his sides and hands folded behind his back.

He grinned, leaning over the railing himself, taking a deep breath. "I've heard a lot about Coastland girls, but never _that_, I must admit. The air has a nice smell, probably the flowers some of my maids planted last year. Can't rightly say what they are."

"Oh, of course not, that wouldn't be manly, now would it?" She smiled into her glass, her reflection a hazy dark shadow against the deep red.

"Not in the slightest. Though, between just us, I've a fancy for mimosa, my mother used to like them too." The smile held on his face, though he was unsure of what mood she was in. Gwyneth was never so obvious as all that, and assuming _anything_ with _any_ woman had never done Teagan much good.

"I won't tell anyone, I'm good at keeping secrets." She almost laughed, but the joke, if it was one, was a little too close to the truth, so instead she sighed, shaking her head ruefully. Then, eyes peered over at her companion studying him. The pleasantries were done. "Why are you out here?"

"To ask _you_ the same question, madam. Your gown is damp, your hair is wet, and I don't think the wine is so good that you'd be distracted enough drinking it, to not notice those things." He offered, sniffing as the mist collected on his nose.

"Not particularly, no. Its quite dry." She tilted the glass, almost taking another sip, but setting the glass on the railing at the last second. She'd had enough, and it didn't taste any better than it had when Gwyneth had first started nursing it.

"_Dry_? Compared to _what_, a thundershower?" Red-brown brows rose high on Teagan's face, making those blue-green Guerrein eyes look wider.

"I _meant_ the _wine_." Her lips pulled up in the corner.

"Ah, yes, of course, sorry. Still, don't you think it would be better to come back inside?" He moved back a step, hand reaching out to the handle of one heavy door, the suggestion more than plain.

"Perhaps. That depends, do you think the women are still talking about how I ran outside this afternoon with no shoes on?" She snorted, but it was an ill humor, and though it wasn't the highest on Gwyneth's list of concerns, it _was_ an annoyance. Made worse by the fact that she herself could criticize that lack of propriety. Emergency or no, there was little excuse to forget one's public appearance.

Teagan raised a curious brow at that. He didn't know Gwyneth all that well, but what he _did_ know certainly didn't suggest she was the type to be scared off by some idle gossip. "You aren't really afraid of _that_, are you?"

It was an honest question, and she could hardly fault him for the disbelief in his voice, and she shook her head. "No, I suppose I'm not. To be honest, I think everyone is still busy enough thinking about Loren, that my momentary lapse is a small thing, easy to forget." And they weren't the only ones thinking about Lord Zacharius' punishment, but it was Gwyneth alone that knew some of that decision had been because she pushed, and when Alistair pushed back, it was with an unexpected force that made her feel both proud, and frightened. More than that, were the hurt feelings, wounds that she'd gone to lick, from being set aside. She'd served her purpose beside him that afternoon, and was no longer needed or wanted once Alistair had made himself clear. The aftermath was hers to contend with, and it was a tiring process, one that had driven the young queen to stand in the mist, drinking overly dry wine and feeling sorry for herself. Any reprimands that had been self-delivered that morning, weren't very present the second time that Gwyneth came to pity her own person. '_You _did_ create this mess, you know that?_' Her aggravating conscience provided, nagging inside her skull and she barely wrestled herself away from responding out loud. _'Maybe, but that doesn't mean I enjoy it.'_

Teagan spoke up again, not noticing how it startled Gwyneth away from her private thoughts. "I have to admit I . . . I didn't think Alistair had that in him, though I can understand why no one would want to plan a birthday celebration, now. I hadn't quite figured that one out, since this would be the first year that so many people would attend, but after having to deal with _this_ mess, I can't say that _I'd_ be in the mood for festivities either."

Gwyneth held out a hand, the other palm curling around the stem of her glass severely enough to break it, though it proved sturdy. "Beg your pardon, but did you say . . . Alistair's _birthday_?"

"Yes." Teagan paused, confused. "Didn't you know? How could you not? Surely Eamon would have mentioned it before you left Denerim."

"Eamon is being kept very busy, Denerim does not take care of itself very readily. I can well imagine it may have slipped his mind, or he supposed, as you did, that I already knew. It's an understandable assumption." Gwyneth got out, sounding a lot more reasonable than she felt. "But Alistair has never said anything about his birthday." Then she came to realize that he probably hadn't had a celebration at all in the chantry, apart from maybe a few well wishes. She'd heard the Most Holy Order of the Guardian Templars (_and wasn't _that_ a pretentious name_) weren't overtly fond of too much revelry. Eamon may have done something for him when he was still at Redcliffe, but in trying to keep Alistair's very existence secret, it wasn't likely those were large celebrations either.

"Truly? Why did Alistair not tell you?" Teagan rubbed at the line of trimmed ginger hair at his chin.

"Why _indeed_, Bann Guerrein. I'm wondering much the same, myself." She drew the glass up against her collar bone, readying to go back inside where she could ask the man himself. "I suppose it isn't any great worry." If it was expected that Gwyneth was planning for it already, it had to be some time in mid July. "When is it, next month?"

"Not at all. The twenty-second day of June, if memory serves." He corrected, offering an arm to the queen as he noticed her movements of departure.

"_What_?" Fingers tightened on Teagan's arm, her face gone livid. "It's _this_ month?" Her tone was still low, but was heading uphill towards 'shrill' in a big hurry. "I can't possibly prepare for . . . what was he _thinking_ not to . . . pfft!" She sighed, unable to rub at her temples like the young queen usually did when a headache was building, both hands occupied. Instead, with her propriety gone for a moment, and feeling comfortable enough with Teagan to do so, she settled on a single complaint. "Well . . . _shit_!"

The Bann of Rainesfere patted her arm with his free one, unable to think of what else he could do. "There, now, I'm sure it isn't _that_ bad. You can just speak to him, and sort things out."

Gwyneth snorted at that, the mist billowing out from her nostrils like steam. "That's easier said than done. _Our king _isn't of the mood to speak to _anyone_, he told me so himself." She would've said more, but whether this man was Alistair's adopted uncle or no, spouting off her marital problems wouldn't solve them, and would likely make things worse. A bevy of _'how could you talk to Teagan about our private affairs!_' and modifications to that same accusation, manifested from Alistair's imagined lips to her mind.

"It was a . . . dark day, for all of us. Perhaps, if you give him some time, he'll feel a bit more open. He was ever that way as a lad, of course that was some time ago, but I remember how he used to run off, all sullen over something or the other, and go for a sulk on one of the work horses. Though he always came back once he was hungry, ever the slave to his stomach, that boy." Teagan smiled affectionately at those spots of memory, and though he began by trying to offer some kind of advice, he realized he had begun to mostly speak to himself. Gwyneth appeared to be off somewhere in her own mind, but then she nodded.

"I'll think on that."

Teagan hadn't realized he'd given her anything to think _about_, but if she found something valuable in his rambling ruminations, then all the better. He smiled at her. "Good, I'm glad I could help, in some small way of course. I do so hate to see the two of you miserable. All those companions, and its just you two now, you should at least have each other to depend on."

Gwyneth was going to remind, quite staunchly, that he ought not forget Noble, who was her most steadfast companion and remained so, but anything she would have said to Teagan was cut short. As the man opened the door, a young serving boy almost fell over.

"James . . . what were you doing there? I certainly hope you weren't eavesdropping." Teagan cautioned, eyes narrowing suspiciously, but gentle in voicing it.

The blonde haired lad bobbed his head as he bowed. "Ah, no, Milord Guerrein, would never do _that_, no ser. Have no cause to be droppin' eaves."

"Then what _were_ you doing?" Teagan asked again, slightly amused by his lack of a direct answer. Gwyneth seemed less so, quiet and stiff at his arm.

"Letter, for Her Majesty. Meant to knock, but you got 'ere first." He bowed again, looking up at the queen and flinching from the almost dissecting glare he received in return. "Your Highness looks nice this evenin'." He was going to mention that she looked a wee bit damp and put out, but thought better of that.

"Thank you, Master James." She got through the press of tight lips, certain the boy had been attempting to eavesdrop, no matter what he said. Servants were mostly a nosy lot, as Gwyneth could recall from her days in Highever. When he only smiled lopsidedly, bowing again, and staring, she cleared her throat, passing her half empty wine glass to the boy. "Perhaps you might be so kind as to take care of this for me, in exchange for _my letter_."

"Oh right, sure enough, I can be doin' that. This were addressed to the king, but I figure he's all laid up and wot, best be givin' it to _you_, Majesty, aye?" He chuckled nervously, and pair of bright blue eyes blinking through the fringe of messy blonde locks.

"Tis well, James." Teagan murmured, ushering the boy away. He was used to enduring the lad's less than marvelous social graces around guests, which at fourteen hadn't improved all that much yet, given that his mother was the best cook that Teagan had ever had, and he was a good lad, but a trying one as well. "Was there something else?" He was forced to ask when James still stood there.

"Aye. Steward Aldwyn caught me up, said to tell Her Majesty that a Mistress Amell has arrived from Kinloch Hold. 'Ere to see the king, I 'spect. Said the queen would wanna know first, 'fore she left the receivin' hall. She looks scared." The boy widened his eyes as if in a mimic of the newly arrived mage. It might not have been necessary to throw that last bit in, but James felt better for doing so.

Gwyneth tried to smile through the boy's impertinence and her own foul mood. "Thank you, Master James. Do tell the master steward that I will meet Mistress Amell in the hall shortly."

He bowed again, rapid and jerky, and went off at a dash, wine glass bouncing precariously in one small fist. Not even a word to excuse himself or waiting to be excused.

Teagan sighed dramatically. "I . . . apologize for him. James isn't normally out and about like this, he usually just handles smaller tasks outside, but with all the guests here, I needed every servant I have."

Gwyneth held the letter, turning it over to find that it was indeed addressed to _'His Majesty, King Alistair' _in a scrawling script that she recognized from Commander Caron's letters to _her_. He'd be in no mood to read it tonight, and Gwyneth was curious why Ser Gerod would write to her husband instead of her, considering the terms they had parted on. A dark blue wax seal held it closed, a rearing griffon embedded in it, and she ran her thumb over the Grey Warden insignia, thinking. Teagan's apology seemed far away, but she answered him. "There's no need to feel guilty over that. He lacks proper manners, but he's young still." Then she smiled coyly at him. "You _know_, Milord Teagan, that if you had a _wife,_ she could better see to the training of your staff and the hiring on of new workers, so that _you_ needn't be so tasked during visits."

There was a sigh from the long harried bann. "Not _you_ too, I've enough of that ribbing from Eamon. I'll . . . I'll renew my efforts, if it would please The Crown."

"It would in fact _please The Crown _greatly, and provide a stronger alliance with Rainesfere, when _all_ your house in order." She winked at him, forcing herself into a better mood, though that didn't always work. Gwyneth knew she couldn't kept on in her own personal flogging and misery and still attend to her tasks, both those naturally given and those she'd set upon herself. "But I've teased you enough, and I must see to Alistair's healer. He's been waiting long enough already. I should thank you for collecting me, it was most gentlemanly of you."

Teagan smiled, drawing her hand to his lips for a courtly peck before letting her reclaim it for herself. "Not at all, I should thank _you_ for letting yourself _be_ collected. Goodnight, Your Majesty."

"Goodnight, Milord." With a parting nod and a small curtsey, she was off, tucking the letter in her belt and making for the receiving hall, and whatever new headache might be awaiting her there.

* * *

Everything smelled like some kind of strange spice, and Solona sniffed, wiggling on the hard wooden bench that sat opposite a twin on the other side of the hall. She'd been waiting there awhile, the mountainous sized Ser Hadrian standing by the door with his arms folded. He looked as uncomfortable as she did, probably wanting to be out of his armor, and there was some comfort in that, but not much. Solona had tried smiling at him several times, but if he acknowledged her at all, it was only to scowl briefly and go back to looking blankly ahead of him.

There were some tall red-brown sprigs standing in some simple clay floor vases, a few accompanying leafy stems sitting together with them. She wondered if they were what smelled, but was too nervous to get up and check. Every twitch, she could feel Ser Hadrian's eyes on her, waiting to see if she was up to anything suspicious.

She would've occupied herself with the decor, but the first hall they'd kept her in had very little of it. Just the leaves and sprigs, and a coat of arms hanging over each of the benches. Solona was about to take in the structure of the room, counting how many knotholes she could see in the rich wooden beams, when a knock and a voice came from the inner doors. She craned her neck, Ser Hadrian moving to open them, and her eyes widened as a physical representation of Saint Andraste walked in. '_Goodness_!' Some of those rescued from the circle tower's near-demise had spoken of the woman that was now queen, and there might have been one or two mentions of her similarity, in appearance, to the Maker's bride, but Solona had always assumed they were just wild rumors. Telling fanciful tales and anecdotes was a way of passing the time among the younger initiates. This had to be her, and the rumors were eerily true.

The young enchanter stood quickly, but then didn't know if she _should_ stand, so sat down again, only to rise to her feet for a second time as the taller woman walked inside the small receiving hall. "Ah, hello, I'm sorry. I don't know . . . what do I call you? Is 'My Queen' presumptuous?" She asked, her mouth tilting sideways, halfway between an awkward smile and a confused frown.

For a moment, the other woman didn't speak, just stood there, intimidating and stiff faced. Then she seemed amused, grinning lightly. "It is hardly presumptuous Mistress Amell, I _am_ your queen. Though 'Majesty' or 'Highness' works well enough. Have you never met nobility before?" Her voice sounded fine and educated, a pleasant lilt to 'r's and long 'a's, drawing out the latter and rolling some of the former.

There was a jewel encrusted 'C' hanging about the queen's neck, and Solona stared at it before she realized she'd been asked a question, the query itself making her flush in embarrassment. "No, well, not really, apart from some of the parents of the children brought to Kinloch, but I don't speak to _them_. We aren't allowed. The First Enchanter says that the departure between a mage child and their parents is difficult enough, without gawkers standing about, trying to make awkward conversation."

"I'm sure that's true." The queen nodded, her smile tight, but a fair bit better than Ser-Taller-Than-the-Frostbacks still standing by the door. "Well then, I will attempt to educate you somewhat on the customs of greeting, before you meet King Alistair. He is in a certain . . . cloudy mood, from being injured of course, and we wouldn't want to cause any further distress." She turned on her heel, a dark blue dress hanging from her waist, where the rest of it was tight enough to make Solona feel awkward in her own loose robes.

Never would she have thought that women could be allowed to wear such garments, but she guessed when you were the queen, you dressed the way you wanted. '_It must be nice_.'

"Here, walk alongside me, and I'll take you to His Majesty's chamber. I won't walk as fast as I normally do, but do try to keep up please." The queen turned to briefly address the knight. "Ser Hadrian, thank you ever so much for your services this day, you may retire for the evening. Ser William has His Highnesses security well in hand."

"Thank you, Your Majesty." He lowered his head to kiss her right knuckles, shooting a warning glare at Solona, that the mage wasn't at all certain she had earned. "I wish Our King a swift recovery. Good evening, My Queen, Mistress Amell." Hadrian bowed shortly, leaving the door open in his wake, where a servant held it open for the two women.

Dark brown eyes drifted over every piece of furniture they passed, Solona at one point reached out to run her fingers along a finely polished side table, the texture smooth and pleasant beneath her skin. It was quiet there, but the eeriness that sat in the stillness of Kinloch Hold wasn't present in Castle Guerrein, sounds of servants far off and a few murmurs of conversations as they passed by doors. The building felt . . . _friendly_, if buildings could feel any way at all. Even the stairs had that same friendly look to them, wooden and worn smooth in places, with a damasque styled runner going up the middle. Little swirls had been carved into the newel posts at the top of it, and Solona smiled as her fingers briefly explored the dips and valleys in the wood.

"A curtsey is customary when meeting any knights or nobles, though a demure nod will do on occasion as well, keeping in mind that your hands should be folded neatly against your sternum or at your sides. Posture is _always_ important." She went on and on to the young mage. "I will introduce you to Ser William, he is the king's First Knight of the royal Knights of Denerim, which means he is captain. He'll be the one to stand guard outside the door, though I'm _certain _there won't be _any_ trouble." Silver eyes narrowed on the mage, in 'encouragement' to behave. "After you attend to His Majesty, you can ask for something to eat. I'll have Ser Amstead come to collect you and take you to your room for the evening, and Bann Teagan's servants can bring you what you'd like then. Though the fare here is fairly simple."

"My room?" Solona blinked, the queen's words seeming to be tossed at her so quickly that she could barely understand them.

"Were you not told that you were to spend the evening here, and then check on His Majesty again in the morning?" Queen Gwyneth paused for a moment before a bend in the hallway. The light from the sconces almost made the beams look like their shadows were undulating.

Neither Greagoir or Irving had said anything about that. Solona had simply assumed it was a one night affair, and that she'd be returning to the circle tower as soon as she was done, and she told the queen just as much.

"Well, that seems rather negligent of them, but no matter, you know _now_ and I can assure you that they are aware of it. So no templars will be sent in the middle of the night, inquiring after missing mages." The queen smirked at that, perhaps meaning it to be a joke of some sort, though she didn't seem the type. Once she realized Solona wasn't laughing, she turned her head, motioning them to continue. "You know, if it wasn't so late on, I'd have one of the serving women attend you."

"I'm sure it's a privilege to have the Queen of Ferelden here instead." Solona murmured, distracted as she looked around the hallway.

"Yes . . . it _is_." Eyes were narrowed and intent made therein that wasn't altogether pleasant.

Solona smiled nervously, trying not to twitch as was her nervous habit when she felt so scrutinized. At least the queen smiled back, even if there was something off about it.

They stopped before a door, nothing marking it as any different from the others they'd passed by, apart from the brunette man placed beside it, standing vigil. He was shorter than Ser Hadrian and seemed to have a kinder face. There was an honest smile of greeting offered, that made Solona feel _almost _welcome.

"Mistress Solona Amell, this is Ser William Aquitaine." The queen enunciated with her hands. "I leave this young lady in your care, should she need anything. I'll be sending Ser Amstead here to collect her in say . . . an hour or so. Good evening to you both, _I_ won't be returning until around midnight."

Ser William bowed formally, wishing the same tidings on the queen, and waited until she was gone to turn back to Solona. "You are a bit younger than we were expecting." He paused, nodding at her pleasantly. "Prettier too, but I'm sure that's why they sent you, makes your patients feel more at ease, probably."

She blushed lightly, unused to such compliments and shrugged. "Maybe it does."

"Well, His Majesty isn't as particular as all that, and if he's a bit prickly with you, pay him no mind, he's had a rough day of it." Ser William knocked on the door, announcing the enchanter, before he opened it. "Majesty, I have a Mistress Solona Amell, here to heal you."

Solona was already tensed up, but when she saw the tall, broad shouldered man inside, almost growling over a stack of parchements, and realized he was the King of Ferelden, she couldn't feel her face anymore. She barely managed to speak. "Your Majesty, you sent for a healer?" '_Lovely way to start the evening, asking a question you already know the answer to!_'

He blinked slowly at her, the light from the candles and lanterns in the room finding the planes of his face, and giving his shoulder length hair a burning reddish cast to the golden blonde. Eyes the same brown as her own, but seeming much richer for the face they were set into, darkened on her in an interest she wasn't sure was positive or negative.

_Wonderful_, the man she was treating was not only a former templar, and the King of Ferelden, but he was a wickedly handsome man as well. '_There's certainly no reason I should be nervous_.' A little bubbling twitch of laughter escaped and she wanted to clamp a hand over her mouth. He arched a brow at that, waving Ser William away, the man shutting the door as he left and leaving the jittery mage to her temporary purgatory.

"Well, at least they didn't send me another cranky old man. I could barely tolerate that physician." He smiled and she was done in, smiling back goofily.

"I'm glad I could be of service, Highness. So . . . should we get started?" And then Solona could get out of there and be alone, where she couldn't make an ass out of herself. '_What a relief _that _would be.'_


	46. Chapter 46: Midnight Dreary

**Disclaimer:** _"Dragon Age: Origins" and all its expansions and additional content is the property of Bioware and EA Games. Large portions of written content within the game, as well as Dragon's Age: The Stolen Throne, and Dragon's Age: Calling, are the creation of David Gaider. Original scenarios and characters are used under the creative license of the writer, ItalianEmpress1985. No profit is being made and the following story is for entertainment purposes only._

**Words From The Author: **_Little sneaky Edgar Allan Poe in the title here. ;) Definitely not foreboding at all, right? :p Tis the season to quote Poe, however, very Halloween and all that. Though I actually think this chapter has moments both dire and some a little more fun than that, but let's keep that between us. I will say, however, that I LOVED the end of this. Hehehehehe! ;p You'll see why, I think._

_Didn't get as much writing done on vacation as I liked, mostly we were on the road or shopping or going to movies etc. and it didn't leave too much free time, but I did get 'some' morning time on the computer so managed to do it that way, and I used my notepad to write on the plane ride back home, so I did eventually get to the old school way of doing things. Anyway, thank you ahead of time for your patience and continued interest. I know I don't update as frequently as some authors, but I know if I push and just write to get the chapter done in a hurry, the quality is going to suffer big time, and you know what they say about quality versus quantity, not that this is the best story ever told, but I like to think it's at least reasonably legible. :p_

_Thank you for stopping in. Watch out for low flying dragons!_

* * *

_**Chapter Forty Six:**_

**Midnight Dreary**

* * *

**S**olona held her cards close to her chest, sitting in a hard wooden chair she'd dragged over to the king's bedside, his own cards held with one hand as the other was held up in the bandage that kept his shoulder in a sling. He was smiling at her, teasing when he knew she wasn't going to win. She was no good at Wicked Grace, even playing by 'crown rules' that King Alistair assured her were much less naughty, and a lot more fair.

"I don't think card games will make you feel better . . . if . . . if I may say, Highness." She tilted her head at him, trying to bow in whatever way she could, without sitting up, which only made the young mage feel awkward.

"Not my arm maybe, but I'm in a much better mood, believe me." He smiled, genuinely, bolstered by the pleasant company. The mage was fairly quiet, but not unapproachably so. Alistair watched her as she quirked a dark brown brow, equally brown eyes coming together in concentration. It was the same look she'd worn as she had healed what the physician could not, tissue mending under the cool touch of the enchanter's hands. He hadn't thought to keep her, but her company was such a pleasant contrast to that of his wife, that Alistair found himself selfishly wanting to hoard away some form of escape from his own duties, so he'd have the memory of them when next he had to deal with Gwyneth.

"Mmm . . . Oh, I see! I was holding this one upside down." She laughed, a free hand pressed against her cheek for a moment, eyes shining with self amusement. "What a feather head I am."

"I took _me_ awhile to get the hang of this, so don't worry. It wasn't permitted in the chantry, which meant we initiates had _sneak in _our games, not that I was always invited." A bitter tang flavored those memories and Alistair tried no to let it show, not wanting to spoil the pleasant atmosphere.

"Yes, that's right! They told me you had been a Templar once." A thoughtful fist curled under her small jaw, as Solona briefly studied the king, finding her earlier unease ebbing away a bit, though not gone entirely.

He shook his head at her proclamation. "Not quite, never got around to making it all official and what not."

"Ah . . . when you became a Grey Warden was it? When you left, I mean." She laid the cards down on her lap, legs folded beneath her and tucked under the long length of her grey enchanter's robe.

"How'd you know? Does everyone talk about that too, even in the circle tower?" He quirked dark blonde brows at her, his own cards lain down on the serving tray across his thighs.

"Not really, no, I just guessed. I can't imagine one can be both a Grey Warden _and_ a Templar." She shrugged in response.

Alistair grinned broadly. "You're a bright one. Must be why they sent you here."

"Maybe, but you have to try to be 'bright' in the tower, those who aren't . . . well, they don't make it very long." Her face turned down, pretty lines and full mouth given to her melancholy. Then she raised her head, looking at the king in shock at her own words. "Oh! Your Majesty! I _am_ sorry, I shouldn't be talking about that with . . ."

"It's alright."

"But, the queen was very clear about . . ."

"I _said_ it's alright." Alistair intoned again, a bit more forcefully than he intended, softening at her down turned face. He pushed himself up on the blankets, reaching over awkwardly to put a comforting a hand over hers, where it was lain against the jut of one knee. "Really, Mistress Amell, I'm not the ogre others might have you believe, you don't have to be so nervous, so worried about saying the wrong thing. _I_ used to say the wrong thing all the time, and I know what it's like. Besides, you came all this way to help me, just so I wouldn't be left with a scar, and I'm not going to repay you by cleaving off your head if you so much as act like everything in the world _isn't_ rainbows and sunshine."

That earned him a small smile, even as she shyly slid her hand away, head bobbing in a short nod. "As His Majesty says."

There was a warmth to the mage that Alistair hadn't expected, Solona Amell herself not what he expected _either_. She was as well meaning as she was pretty, a sincerity to her words that was immensely refreshing. The other nobles would tear her to shreds, such nice traits not of much value among that pack of vultures, but Alistair was very glad that she had been the one the tower had sent, two gifts in one. A healer for his shoulder, and a balm for his disquiet, even if the small window of escapism she offered would be short lived.

"I also should say thank you. The trip to Rainesfere probably wasn't the most fun you've ever had." He tilted his head, watching her as she only offered a nod for that, smile hidden with the tuck of her chin.

"Majesty, it was no trouble. I was ordered to come here, after all, but it was nice to . . . get out of the tower, a taste of something different, even for a little while, you know?" She tucked a strand of dark brown behind one ear, one of her many nervous habits.

"Yes, I think I _do_ know." Alistair cleared his throat, feeling oddly shy himself, though he couldn't place why. "So, another round of cards before we both go to sleep?"

"You know I won't win." She grinned slyly, her first bold expression of the evening. "That's why you want me to keep playing."

"On to me, are you? Damn!" He snapped the fingers of his free hand ruefully, grinning just as widely as she was. "Well, then, we'll just have to play for the company."

* * *

_Your Great Majesty, King Alistair Theirin,_

_This letter has been sent by hawk, in the hopes that it will speed the flight and reception of it. In case it does not, I apologize if you receive it later than is useful to you._

_I must thank you once again for the gift of the chalice, and your cooperation for the benefit of the Grey Wardens and the very needful Ferelden Chapter. Especially considering how many other matters must take up your attention. I cannot imagine running a country is at all an easy task._

_We have a saying in Orlais, in St. Talon. Prenez chaque jour, et être reconnaissants. It means to take everyday you have and be grateful for it. As Grey Wardens we must do this as we face darkspawn and the upsets and destruction they cause. I imagine it was much the same for you and Her Majesty during the Blight, and I am even more grateful that you have not allowed any of it to shade your person with bitterness. Instead you have proven to be both an honorable Grey Warden, and a better man than most, and now an even more honorable king. I salute you._

_With such words, it is with great regret that I inform you that your Ser Mhairi is no longer with us. She died with honor and we held a pyre for her. I have set aside some of her personal belongings and am working with Seneschal Varel to secure the locations of her family so I may send them along. If there is anything Your Majesty would wish kept for you, I would be happy to do so, and if you may give us any information that may speed the discovery of her family, it would be greatly appreciated._

_As to the others, Masters Oghren, Anders, and Nathaniel have done well throughout their initiation into the order, proving themselves hearty enough for the tasks that await them. Master Nathaniel has surprisingly made little attempt to escape his new role, and though I am still cautious, considering how he was indoctrinated with us, I have hopes that in time he may come to accept his duties as a Grey Warden. Perhaps he will see them as the chance for redemption, that I feel he sorely needs._

_In other matters, there have been small attacks on local settlements, of which it is rumored to be mostly bandits taking advantage of the suffering country folk, but also some concerns about darkspawn bands and another worry that I would rather discuss in person. If His Majesty would consent to a short visit at Vigil's Keep before retuning to Denerim, I would be most appreciative. I look forward to your reply, and your visit if you so make one._

_Regards on His Majesty's well being and that of Her Highness,_

_Warden Commander, Gerod Caron._

Gwyneth read over the letter a second time, a bitter desperation to find something, perhaps an error in the man's Fereldish, that would prove her wrong. Maybe she misread it, maybe he didn't write as clearly as he ought . . . but no. Gerod Caron's written Fereldish was improving, steadied as it was by a noble penmanship, and there was no error. The commander was a careful writer, cautious about revealing too much of the Grey Warden's secrets, but the meaning between the words was clear.

Her hands shook with emotion as she held the parchment, horrified disbelief developing into darker twisting thoughts. First, grief at the loss of her favorite among Alistair's knights, thinking back on her good luck tokens and wishes for the woman, that now seemed absurd. Secondly, the astounding rage that Nathaniel Howe had survived, as if to tease her on punishing him in such a way that left any room for his survival.

_'How had the Maker not seen how unfit he was, how had He allowed such human spittle to continue on, while letting Mhairi die in his place? It's outrageous!'_

The queen let out a roar of fury, tearing the letter in half and crumpling both halves of it, tossing them across the room, and when that wasn't enough, she rose to her feet and kicked the chair over. Her hands were curled fists, at her sides, and then in her hair, nostrils flaring with anger and sadness and disappointment all at once.

She backed up against a wall bearing a built in bookshelf, causing some of the tomes to dislodge and fall to the floor. Gwyneth followed their descent, sliding against the shelves until she was sitting on the hard wood, knees drawn up and arms curled around them as she attempted to catch her breath, the hyper panting caused by her turbulent emotions almost making her black out.

A servant had heard the commotion, having been out making the final rounds to check if anyone needed anything before they retired for the evening. She cautiously opened the door to peer inside. "Majesty? Are you well?"

Gwyneth almost shrieked at her to get the hell out, but managed to restrain herself, breath still rapid. "Tea. Some _very strong _tea. Bring me some."

"Ah, yes of course, Majesty. We've some chamomile I can put in it as well." The servant dared the suggestion, body stiff in preparation for any anger that may have caused.

The queen's eyes narrowed, but she eventually gave a short nod. "Yes, fine, fine, just hurry it up."

"Yes, Your Highness, I'll bring it here at once."

It was quiet after that, the humming silence of a castle bedding down for the evening, and Gwyneth would have likely been heading off to bed herself soon, but she needed to calm down first. Facing Alistair in this state wasn't going to be very pleasant for either of them.

In the silent study, she forced her breathing to slow, taking deeper more drawn breaths until she was able to feel her limbs relaxing_. 'I can handle this, I've handled everything else before, and much worse besides. I'll be fine, I'll carry on just as I always have, and be better for it.' _The mantra was repeated until Gwyneth actually believed it, standing slowly, bracing her hands behind her against the bookshelf to do so. She took one more long, deep breath, bending to pick up the fallen tomes, and put them back with fingers that no longer trembled.

Nathaniel still wasn't as free as all that, he would still be forced to grueling tasks, to walk in the footsteps of those he would've condemned, Gwyneth in particular. Then there was the matter of the high mortality rate amongst Wardens in general, which didn't favor the odds of new recruits. _Maybe an ogre would come along and turn him into pulp. _Such a thought turned the queen's thin lips upward, in a vicious little smile. He hadn't been granted the martyrdom he'd wished for, and though it was . . . inconvenient that he'd passed his Joining, Gwyneth thought that she might be able to deal with that, though the idea of him wandering around and calling her all kinds of names, made her rankle. '_Rotten bastard!' _Yet things hadn't gone _entirely_ off course, and she would hold on to what small victories were granted to her. Nathaniel being forced to walk a path not too dissimilar from her own, to watch as others took better governance over Vigil's Keep than his father _ever_ did, was such a victory, and Gwyneth would remind herself of that.

_'Do not let vengeance imprison your heart.' _Many sages would've offered that advice to one so like Gwyneth, wanting Nathaniel dead, and never so much as denying it to herself. She'd pretended otherwise, and for a short time had even convinced herself she'd be alright with his survival, but the consequences of that decision made her true colors shine, and they were not very bright in hue, drawn down into the shadows of a pettiness created by unease. There was a chance that Nathaniel could manage to drum up support for his black hearted father, for his own 'cause' such as it might become, and though being a Warden would keep him from some of that, in the end such responsibilities had not kept Gwyneth from _her_ blue blooded heritage, or the crown she now wore. She didn't believe for a moment that telling Nathaniel he held no title, would ever mean that he _himself_ thought that to be true. He would be Lord Howe, son of an arl, in his heart and mind for an eternity. Of that, Gwyneth was most certain, and the trouble he could cause gave her more than an impending headache . . . she was _afraid_. All the self confidence in the world would not change that.

She closed her eyes to imaginings of Nathaniel standing at the head of a rebellion, perhaps the people of Amaranthine who would take exception to having an Orlesian Grey Warden as their only functioning liege lord. Those who believed Rendon Howe to be just in his decimation and near obliteration of the Cousland line. Men and women who hated Gwyneth and had no reason to stand beside her ruling or that of her husband, a man she was no longer certain would be her pillar of support.

But this was her world, and the problems within it were no more and no less than the successes she could claim. Gwyneth sighed, rubbing her thumbs over her brow lines and pressing them to her eyes. The silver irises beneath those lids seem to bite and sting, and she knew that if she were to open them now, she'd cry. Her frustration was almost too much to bear, but she had to manage. No one was going to take her hand and lead her through the battlefield, not _this_ time, and she had more immediate matters to deal with.

_Mhairi. _Past all of the queen's animosity towards Nathaniel, she remembered how honored the young knight had been to be considered into the ranks of Grey Wardens . . . '_honored!' _Yet now, she was dead, and those that didn't want it at all, had made it through. The Maker could be unbelievably cruel, and in that moment Gwyneth almost could understand the anger of the Imperials, why they had turned to the Old Gods instead and brought themselves to ruin, and nearly the world. But that was a dangerous road to take, and the hot glowing eyes of Morgreth Urthemiel sat in the back of her mind, wishing to be forgotten but never quite gone, reminding her of just that.

She collected the torn letter, setting both pieces side by side as she sat at a worn desk, the smooth wood feeling comforting beneath her palms. An odd thought, feeling misplaced amongst the others, but undeniably true, occurred to her. The commander had written specifically to the king, not _her_, despite the terms they had parted on, where it seemed Ser Caron had been favorable towards the queen, and yet she was only mentioned briefly.

There had been something there, on the balcony of Vigil's Keep, something in the empty air between them, shining back at her in the Orlesian man's eyes, so blue and clear. Gwyneth could have sworn it was so . . . but perhaps he was merely being cautious and trying to get back into the king's good graces, Gwyneth would likely make a similar attempt were she in his place. All things considered it wasn't very wise to dwell on 'the empty air between' at any rate, definitely not when one was the Queen of Ferelden. _So why was it that she felt disappointed that there was nothing more personal for her?_ That, she couldn't have said, and she gnawed at it until the maidservant came in with the tea tray, and her thoughts shifted elsewhere.

When the tea arrived, she drank it slowly, as if each sip would bring her a stronger peace of mind, and it seemed to work, but no matter if Gwyneth truly believed that tea was _always_ good in a crisis, there was only so much it could fix and she needed to speak to her husband. Eyes drifted, looking to the ceiling as if she might see through the wood and mortar and into Alistair's room . . . _their_ room . . . she reminded herself sternly, but of course she couldn't. The reluctant young woman had to actually go up there, and she thanked the maid that had brought the tea, with more sincerity than Gwyneth generally might have otherwise. She needed it.

* * *

William nodded at her as she approached, the scones lighting the planes of his armor and a thought occurred to Gwyneth that had her smirking in good humor. She enjoyed it while she could, assuming that any moments of easy mirth in the days to come would be few and far between. "Why faithful ser, does it not chafe to be strapped into your armor for so long?"

Her husband's First Knight only shook his head, amused. "Good madame, I hadn't given it a thought until just now, but since Her Majesty was _so kind _as to draw it to my attention, I suppose so yes."

"It will be hard riding, come the morning. Perhaps His Great Sire will consent to you wearing your own lord's garb when set to guarding him inside a dwelling." She smiled, sweeping back a wayward strand of hair from across her forehead. "What are the colors of House Aquitaine?"

"Gold and blue, though I've not worn them since I was accepted as a Knight of Denerim. Now the _king's _colors are the only ones I wear." He almost bowed at the sobering thought, but didn't. The queen's eyes on him made him as alert as William assumed they did to everyone. She was a goodly sort, he thought, but it didn't make her gaze any less unnerving.

"You are very loyal, Ser William, would that every man had your honor." Gwyneth sighed, going for the door, but the first knight cleared his throat and she stopped. "Is there a problem?"

"None as such, Your Majesty, only that His Highness is still in attendance with the healer." He nodded towards the door, dark brown hair looking to have a bit of red in the torch light as the knight moved.

"But it is nearly midnight, surely any healing work would've long been finished." She raised her brows at him, both of them pausing to listen, when the low noise of laughter made it through the wood. Gwyneth narrowed her eyes on the door.

"I'm not versed in the ways of mages, My Queen, and I cannot say one way or the other. I'm sure they forgot the time, it's an easy enough thing to do." William's smile was placating, but already he felt disquiet over the queen's mood. She never did like it when things didn't go according to her own plans. It reminded Ser Aquitaine of his own wife, except his Selda didn't have any of their queen's burning ire, but she certainly still had ways about her that reminded William he was never the master of his own house. A wry grin threatened at that memory, but he cast it aside, moving to let the queen open the door, already feeling sorry for the king if the woman's mood was indeed put out.

Gwyneth listened for a moment longer, taking a deep breath and settling herself, frame gone straight as she heard more laughter, this time it was female. She rapped at the door, feeling ludicrous for knocking at her own guest chamber, but she didn't want to interrupt something that would leave her feeling even more embarrassed. To his credit, Ser William turned his head away, not looking as the laughter stopped.

Alistair's voice came through, clear and unassuming. "Yes, come in."

She had a blank stare as she entered, a little startled to find Solona Amell seated so close to the king's bed, where Alistair lay, still clothed, atop the covers. That was something, at least. "Ah, Mistress Amell." The queen swept into the room, hands clasped together and pressed in front of her, one perfectly trimmed brow raising above a sharp eye, both of which had fallen on the healer in question with a hawk's focus. "Cards? I must say, I've never seen such healing methods before, and how time consuming they must be to keep you here, heading on to the midnight hour."

Solona stammered and stood, cards falling from her lap and onto the floor. "Majesty! Oh, dear! I'll . . . I'll just pick these up, shall I?" She offered a slanted smile that the queen did not return, and the mage's petite shoulders flinched as she bent down to collect the fallen cards, trying not to get caught up in her robes.

"It was _my_ fault, I convinced her to play. I needed a distraction, the day has been a long one." Alistair offered, a smile there only for Solona's sake, eyes darkening on Gwyneth in a great deal of displeasure. "I wasn't paying attention to what time it was."

Gwyneth managed to keep her posture, even as she itched to rail at him. The hourglass was not even a full room length away, sat atop the vanity table as it was, and still he couldn't be bothered to even glance at it, once, that entire time. The young mage must have been more distracting than the queen gave her credit for. "Indeed? Then Mistress Amell should be thanked for enduring a game so late in the evening. Surely she must be tired." Gwyneth smiled in the same catty way as her husband, still watching as the enchanter rose back up, hair askew from her collections.

She handed the cards tentatively to the queen as she walked over, trying to hold the woman's gaze, but she was even more intimidating than any statue of the _real_ Andraste could ever be, and Solona felt her face fall. "Yes, very late, and I should be getting on to bed. Umm . . . where was I going again?"

"I'm quite sure that _I_ don't know, but Ser William is still outside the door and will be more than happy to assist you." Gwyneth held that tight smile, even going so far as to open the door for the other woman. She turned to the hall outside, motioning the knight over, to give him instructions and release him from his duties for the evening after he was finished. He might have protested, but one look at the queen's face and he thought better of it.

"Thank you, Mistress Amell." Alistair called out, pleased enough that she hadn't been so spooked by Gwyneth that she couldn't still look back at him.

"No trouble, My King, and goodnight. Ahh . . . to you as well, My Queen." She bowed awkwardly, skittering away like a deer might run from a sense of danger in the forest. Gwyneth only nodded at her, closing the door behind the mage.

"You seem in high spirits, I take it you won your game?" The queen asked, a letter folded under one arm, the cards held in a tight grip in the other hand. She collected Alistair's cards from his tray and combined them, setting the full set on the table, and took a seat in the chair recently vacated by Solona.

"Well yes, but sometimes having good company is just as enjoyable." He watched her watch him, an agonizingly slow process that he was sure she delighted in, but at the end of that wordless battle of wills, Gwyneth merely smiled, that small corner smirk of hers that so irritated him for all the self-absorption it offered. "We all need a distraction." Alistair finished, unwilling to let her goad him out of his mood and back into the sour place he'd been in before.

"Quite." She surprisingly agreed, hands folded neatly in her lap as if she wasn't bothered at all, a well maintained lie of posture.

The letter had been an upset in more ways than one, then the matter of Alistair foregoing his birthday, _obviously on purpose_, was going to cause unnecessary trouble for her, being revealed so close to the date. On top of that, she arrived to find the bastard all but openly _flirting_ with a woman he'd _just met_, and while Gwyneth staunchly told herself it didn't matter, it definitely did, and put her in no better a mood. Instead of focusing on that, and lacking the will to talk about Gerod's letter right at that moment, she used his birthday to pave the way towards other topics, working into it slowly, but without any gentleness. _He didn't deserve it, after he'd set her aside as he did_! All her hard work and just like that, he'd rather have the company of attractive, petite _strangers_.

Her lips drew up slowly, with deliberate and calculating movement. "Speaking of which, did you really think you could _distract me _from the truth? That somehow no one else would say anything to me?"

"Pardon? Is this you being jealous over Mistress Amell, because if it is, then I'm going to tell you right now, to leave her alone. She's a nice girl." Alistair warned.

Gwyneth snorted at that, as if it was amusing in some way. "I'm sure she is, but you know better than that, I'm not jealous. I don't _get _jealous."

"Oh no, of course not, you're so above it all." He rolled his eyes and huffed. "Gwyn, if this is some attempt to make me feel guilty, then you might as well come right out and say it, because I'm tired." What was strange is that there was something different about her demeanor, the same goading tonality to her voice, but a sense that she was using it to keep herself calm . . . and Alistair didn't like it. Mostly, because it made him nervous.

"Yes, I can imagine keeping secrets is very tiring, especially with something as dire as this. You never were particularly good at it anyway, and the harder you try the more I pick up on it, though I failed to notice _this_ time, and I should have." She shook her head, a short laugh, brittle and humorless, and Gwyneth leaned closer to Alistair's side, eyes narrowing like slits in the face of an angry dragon. "Do you have any idea of the position this puts me in? And _you_ as well, what will it look like when everyone else finds out what you've been hiding, as they wonder why you didn't do anything about it?"

"About _what_? Gwyn, I really don't . . ." Then it dawned on him, guilt and the horror that comes with being found out, quick to follow. He sat up, groaning at the stiffness in his bad arm, right hand working to enunciate, still unused to the bandage and he hissed through the pain. "I can explain! It wasn't my fault, alright? I know that sounds like some pathetic excuse, but it really wasn't!"

The queen scoffed, sitting back in her chair. "I don't see how it couldn't have been, Alistair."

"_She _came on to _me_!" His shook his left arm, as if the movement lent credence to his proclamations of innocence. "It was unprovoked, and I didn't say anything to encourage her, Victoria just . . . she just got the wrong idea, and when I tried to tell her that I wasn't interested, well . . . then she kissed me and I really had to get rid of her after that, and then you came along with the lotus and the wine! I was going to tell you, I _was_."

Gwyneth's eyes screwed up in confusion, as she waved a hand in front of her. "Wait, wait, wait! Victoria . . . as in Victoria _Pontifax_?" Her eyes darkened, from silver to grey, on the man lain on the bed before her. "What are you talking about?"

Her confusion was at least doubly similar in him. "What are _you_ talking about? Wasn't that it, the thing with the banness?" Mounting dread suggested not.

"No, I was talking about your birthday and why you hadn't made _one_ mention of it, and how it would impact everyone else with so short a time left to plan anything." Discussing Alistair's birthday had seemed the easiest topic to discuss . . . until _this_.

Gwyneth felt her innards begin to roil, storm clouds behind her eyes and full of dangerous lightning. '_That harlot! That sneaking, slithering, whore! To have the gall to give _me_ an ill favored look, when she'd just been trying to impale herself on _my_ husband!' _If Victoria Pontifax had been in that room just then, Gwyneth would've strangled the woman within an inch of her life. Beneath her skin she felt like she wanted to rage, her blood already pounding, recalling dinner last evening and how damn smug the banness had looked, going to lay over Bann Osborne's arm as if she hadn't been about to cuckold him.

"My . . . birth . . . day? Oh, heh, imagine that." Alistair added, lamely, feeling like he'd just stepped in a large pile of dung.

Another thought struck her, and she seized up, already imagining the embarrassment such an indiscretion could cause, especially so early in her marriage. There were enough problems, dealing with her own behavior when Alistair had been shot, the last thing Gwyneth needed was _another_ difficulty. "No one saw you? No one heard anything?" She gripped his bandaged elbow, watching as he tried not to wince.

"I don't think so, no . . . " He shook his head, thinking back. "No, they didn't."

"You'd better hope not. Osborne Pontifax may be an oblivious old goat, but he's a jealous one as well. You saw how he reacted to the suggestion that Victoria was abnormally close to her stepson, how do you imagine he'd react to be cuckolded by his new king, one of whom he doesn't have the easiest alliance with?" Gwyneth didn't wait for an answer, standing in a huff and rubbing at her temples. "I didn't need this, Alistair, I _really_ didn't."

He snorted, already on the defensive. "Would you rather I hadn't said anything?"

"You wouldn't have if you didn't think I already knew." She folded her arms, the weight of her gown feeling heavier for her anxiety, and stale from having been worn half the day, but she had no desire to get into bed with that man, not right then. When he only hung his head at that, not refuting it, Gwyneth felt a pool of bile forming in her guts. "She sneered at me, all smug, brushed past me on purpose even, little trollop, and later when we were . . ." There was a pause, drawn out enough to be uncomfortable. "All that, last night, it wasn't just the lotus was it? Or your frustrations before, it was because _she_ got to you, and the only outlet you had after you refused her, was me?"

"I . . . don't know." He wanted to say differently, but there was something about having it all out in the open that kept him honest. "I really just . . . don't know. Gwyn, I know we came to blows, today just another butting of heads, but I really am sorry. I honestly didn't invite her to do that, and nothing happened more than that kiss."

"But you were tempted, weren't you? At least for a moment. She is an attractive woman, and if the rumors are true, unafraid of 'adventurous' affairs." Gwyneth's stomach twisted again, almost painfully, and she put a fist against it, turning away from Alistair, as she began pacing.

"Yes, I was tempted, but I didn't give in. Doesn't that count for something?" Guilt had become anger, as it began to be obvious that Gwyneth was angrier with _him_, than _Victoria_.

She only shook her head in disbelief of the whole situation, taking the letter still stuck beneath the crook of her arm, and tossed it down on the tray that yet lay across Alistair's lap. "Here, while you were thinking how noble you were for refusing a wanton woman, _after_ you kissed her, and entertaining your pretty, little brown-eyed healer with a _very_ late game of cards, _this_ arrived for you." She crossed her arms, watching him as he almost protested, but took the opened letter first.

"You read this?" Accusing eyes looked up at Gwyneth, Alistair holding the parchment with his left hand, not reading a word of it just yet.

"Of _course _I did! You gave me clear instructions that you didn't want to see me 'or anyone' until your healer arrived. Or had you forgotten how you _barked_ at me after Loren's punishment?" She returned, not feeling like much of victor, even when Alistair winced. When he said nothing, she continued. "It was obviously an important correspondence and I _am_ the _Queen of Ferelden_, a title that means a bit more to me than 'the woman who married Alistair Theirin.' _I _have duties to this country as well, you know. What _should_ I have done? Waited until you were in a more amiable mood? It could've been dire!"

He let Gwyneth rail as she would, starting in on the letter. The king passed over the praises from Commander Caron, thinking them to be, in some way, an apology for deciding in Gwyneth's favor in the matter over Nathaniel Howe. Still, it gave Alistair a sense of comfort to know that at least the man still considered him enough of a brother of the Grey to make the effort. As Alistair continued, his face darkened and he looked at Gwyneth, her own face crestfallen. She'd definitely read it, and not just bits and pieces, but the whole thing. "Ser Mhairi is dead."

"Yes." She sniffed, arms relaxing in a slump.

"I know she was your favorite, I'm sorry." Alistair surprised himself that he actually meant it. Mhairi had been a good woman, and he'd sent her off to her death sentence. Yet for that guilt, he felt even worse for Gwyneth, who had honestly believed she'd make it past the Joining, as if her faith in the woman would keep her safe . . . and it hadn't. When she shrugged as if it didn't matter, Alistair knew otherwise. "I'm not sure where her parents are, or even if they're still alive, to be honest, but I think Ser William does. I'll ask him in the morning, and her fellow knights will want to know anyway."

The mood was somber then, and as he continued to read on, his eyes fell sharp on Gwyneth. "Nathaniel Howe survived." It wasn't a question, but if it had been, the answer was the angry disappointment on Gwyneth's face. She'd wanted him to die, not by the noose he'd consented to, but by the path _she'd_ forced him on. Alistair wanted to be angry at her for thinking like that, knowing that despite Gerod Caron's assurances, she had in fact gotten to the man, but vengeance had been in his own heart before. Gwyneth had stood by him, even after the shock of the Landsmeet, those nobles gathered around them . . just as she had that afternoon during that horrible punishment he'd laid down on Zacharius Loren . . . just as she had done throughout his short reign to date.

He wanted to say something, tell her that he finally understood how seriously she had taken her new role, even if 'wife' meant nothing past the duty of it, what it _did_ mean, was still important. "Gwyneth . . . " Instead he faltered, still angry over her reaction to his admittance earlier in the day. "Tell Commander Caron that we'll go to Vigil's Keep, of course we'll go, send him congratulations on the recruits he still has with him, and regrets on Mhairi's loss. You'll have to write it for me, I can't do very well not using my right hand." A lopsided smile, forced joviality in a moment that had none. "Hard to do anything like this."

Gwyneth nodded slowly, letting out a breath. "But it's healing well? No scaring?"

"Mistress Amell doesn't know yet, but she thinks it will be alright, She's going to give me another healing session in the morning and with Physician Edgely's ointment he gave me, it should be fine, eventually." Alistair felt like they were two perfect strangers, nattering on about whatever topic came up, but Gwyneth was always that way, barely managing to say what she was feeling unless she thought it had some use, and the king had become sadly accustomed to her stunted emotions.

She surprised him when she placed a light hand at his bad shoulder, careful not to press it. "I'm glad, and I'll start on the letter in the morning." Easy as you please, not even a hint of any feelings beyond that, and Gwyneth turned her back before her face could betray her . . . but Alistair said her name again and she faced him. Trying to look blank, but it wasn't altogether successful.

"About my birthday, I think we can say that this year I'm not going to celebrate it, try to save some money for The Crown, since Ferelden is in such bad straits. It'll look good to the commoners and the lower nobles, and besides, it isn't like I even really celebrated it before. So, no big loss, right?" His mouth hitched up, long past the days where that had bothered him, Eamon's gifts the only recognition he had, and once he'd began ignoring those out of spite, there was nothing. That everyone would give a damn, now that he was king, was so unpleasantly false as to give him a stomach-ache.

Gwyneth could barely believe that, but between what Teagan had said, and the few things she'd learned about Alistair during the Blight, she supposed that made sense. _'No, no 'made sense' wasn't the right phrase, because it didn't. It's his _birthday_, for Maker's sake!_' Yet she only gave a small nod. "If you like we can say that, but then I'll have to do the same for my _own _birthday. The twenty-seventh of August, so a ways yet to go, but not all _that_ far." It would be the first year, ever, that her birthday hadn't been celebrated, and the part of her that was still a child inside, quailed at the thought, but she had to match his decisions with her own, else the nation was given a skewed perspective on their union.

"Can you do that? Not have a great big party?" He smirked at the thought of it, and she fixed him with a glare for his trouble.

"I'm _quite sure _I don't know _what _you are suggesting, but yes, I _can do that_, if I must." She would've continued to glare, but Gwyneth felt weary and heartsick with the day and her shoulders fell as she left him to get changed into her nightgown.

The royal couple bedded down, saying little more of merit, the room silent around them as the wick-lamps went out, and Alistair was certain Gwyneth was sleeping already. Until she turned on her side in the dark, leaning up on one elbow. "Why didn't you?"

"Why didn't I what?" He rolled over to face her, even though the shadows kept them from seeing each other's faces, trying to avoid rubbing his bad right arm against the mattress.

"Take Banness Pontifax up on her offer?"

"Because, I'm not that kind of man, Gwyn. I thought you knew that." He almost said that he wasn't like Cailan, but he already wasn't getting along with his wife, and saying something like _that _wasn't going to improve things between them.

"I don't know . . . I just thought . . ." She sighed, and it sounded like a canon for the absolute quiet of their chamber. "I don't know what I thought, it doesn't matter." Gwyneth rolled back over, folding her hands to lay her head atop them. "We should get to sleep, we have a long day of traveling ahead of us." She stiffened when she felt Alistair shift against her back, close enough that she could feel his body heat, and she heard his sharp intake of breath at the pain that must've caused, but he was so _bloody stubborn!_ A small smile curled against her mouth, finding that almost endearing, though she'd never tell him that, certainly not after the day they'd just had. "Stop moving, or you'll undo all of Mistress Amell's _hard work_."

"Why'd you have that tone just now?" The gruffness in his voice was almost relaxing instead of threatening, as if born more of curiosity.

"What tone? There was no tone." She insisted, curling in on herself tighter, her long night gown feeling far too thin against her legs.

"Yes, there was, Gwyn."

"Be quiet and go to sleep." She almost giggled, feeling strangely giddy at the childish nature of this brief bickering, despite the darker thoughts shifting about in her head. It reminded her of days long past, where there was no marriage to get in the way of potential friendship.

"_I'm_ the king here, not _you_." He growled, but it was surprisingly without much malice.

"For goodness sake! Why do you have to be . . ." He reached out with his good hand, curling it at her hip and Gwyneth's breath caught in the dark. "So stubborn?" She finished, voice lowered, because things had changed since the Blight, a newness to their interaction that was as turbulent as it was frightening.

His voice was lower than her own, breath moving the tendrils of her hair at base of Gwyneth's neck, and he felt her shiver, smiling that she couldn't cry off with apathy as much as she claimed. She got under his skin, but he got under hers as well, '_and she damn well knew it_!' "You were upset that I might've been flirting with my healer, weren't you? And Victoria, that _really _ruffled your feathers, that I might've enjoyed someone _else's_ good looks."

"I . . . I don't know what you're talking about." The young queen managed to retain some regality to her voice, clinging to it stubbornly, like a safety blanket for a frightened child, thrown into something they didn't quite understand.

"Yes, you _do_." His fingers tightened, feeling the jut of a hipbone through the flesh beneath her nightgown. "You do, admit it. You are . . . _jealous_." Alistair whispered the last word into her ear.

"I am _not_!" Gwyneth snarled, making the effort of turning under the blankets, so she could face her smirking king, and despite the difficulty in actually seeing him, she knew he was smirking. The evidence was in his voice. His face was a little too close for comfort then, but when she tried to move away, the weight of his hand at her hip felt even heavier than before. Her defiant bravado died in her throat. She didn't like this, the feeling of being on the lower path, with Alistair seeing everything above her. It was suppose to be Gwyneth that always knew what was going on and how to handle it, the feeling that he knew something about her that Gwyneth hadn't even figured out about herself, was maddening. "Stop it." She whispered, discomfited and fidgeting.

"Stop what? I'm not doing anything." He teased, caught up in his own game now. Alistair knew she gave a damn, somewhere, she cared and she was going to admit it, if it was the last thing he dragged out of her. "Just say it, and we can both go to sleep."

"Piss off! What is your obsession with my being jealous?" Gwyneth huffed, willing to tell him anything if he'd just lay off and stop making her so uncomfortable in her own skin. "Fine! Alright, fine, I don't like it. I don't like Victoria fucking Pontifax sidling up to you and I don't like some doe eyed mageling giggling in here with you when I'm not around." If she could've petulantly crossed her arms, she would've, but settled for a glare. "Are you satisfied now, _My King_?"

"Yes, and now I'm tired. Goodnight, Gwyneth." He had to bite down on his laugh as he turned away from her, even as he heard her short and irritated breath of surprise.

"What? That's it? All that, and that's _it_?" Gwyneth failed to realize how much her own disbelief had echoed his earlier, thinking he was an ass for doing that to her.

"Well, it's like you said, we are going to have a long day tomorrow, so we should get to sleep, you're right. So . . . Goodnight." He smiled in the shadows as she snorted at that, probably pouting, and turned away from him. The chantry taught that revenge wasn't good for the soul, but it certainly made Alistair feel a lot better.


	47. Chapter 47: Flawless

**Disclaimer:** _"Dragon Age: Origins" and all its expansions and additional content is the property of Bioware and EA Games. Large portions of written content within the game, as well as Dragon's Age: The Stolen Throne, and Dragon's Age: Calling, are the creation of David Gaider. Original scenarios and characters are used under the creative license of the writer, ItalianEmpress1985. No profit is being made and the following story is for entertainment purposes only._

**Words From The Author: **_Can you believe the last six chapters were all in the same day? Yeah, me either. Let's get some forward motion going here, folks! Lot of introspection in this one, but then it's go forth and all that._

_This was a bit more delayed than I wanted. I was VERY ill, contracted some damn viral throat infection that had me laid up for awhile, but I'm back in business now gentlemen and gentlewomen! Though with the Holidays in full swing, and my poor self having a source of employment that revolves around that this time of year, that'll make me more busy than normal until the New Year, but at least I can write again! Woot! I was a sad panda when I couldn't write._

_At any rate, you all have been wonderfully patient and your interest in this little tale is as humbling as ever. Always thankful for you, dear readers. Should also mention, that the title is definitely not meant to be taken 'too' seriously, mostly because thinking you're flawless is, in itself, a flaw. :p Don't agree at all with Gwyneth's obsession with them either, in case anyone was wondering where the wee author stood on the subject._

_Small French word in here, but I'm pretty sure everyone already knows that 'Oui' means 'Yes' and if not, well there ya have it._

_Also, Happy Thanksgiving to any of my readers that celebrate it. *gobble, gobble, gobble!*_

_Thank you for stopping in. Watch out for low flying dragons!_

* * *

_**Chapter Forty Seven:**_

_**Flawless**_

* * *

June 15'th 9:31, Dragon Age

**T**he day was going to be decent, the sunlight dim but ever present, if the nearly cloudless sky outside the window was any indication, though Gwyneth knew the weather could change on its own whim. However, even if their traveling showed promise, she couldn't say the same for her mood. She was in a downward spiral right from when she first cracked her eyes open, almost irritated at the simple fact that the sun _dared_ to shine when she was so perturbed.

She hadn't slept well, hounded by the fact that she'd all but _let_ Alistair get the better of her, because she was too lazy to keep up the pretense, too tired of it to maintain her composure. _When composure was what one counted on for their personal pride, and it faltered, what was one to do? _Angry disappointment and self flogging, at least that was Gwyneth's answer. The young queen found that she was angrier with _herself_ for letting her down than she could've been with Alistair. She often thought of him as a hypocrite, holding her to standards that he didn't always follow, and reveling in shared attributes that he would later claim were not shared at all. But beyond that, _well _. . . Gwyneth couldn't blame him, knowing that she was _also_ hypocritical. _A rube is a rube and a fool is a fool_. Sage Aldous had told her that in her youth, and the Lady of Highever had suspected he was clearly insulting her in some way, but was never able to prove as much to her parents. Still, the man had been right.

She sighed heavily, feeling not even the barest hint of relief in it. A sleepy grunt drew her eyes sideways and Gwyneth glared.

Alistair was taking up his fair share of the bed and then some. Head over to the right of his own pillow and stealing half of hers. His left arm was raised at an odd angle above his head, the only thing keeping the right one under the covers was the snug sling it was still bound in. The sheets barely covered Gwyneth at all, bunched up as they were under Alistair's left side as he nestled in them in his sleep. There was an old scar across his abdomen, where it peeked out from the top sheet, and Gwyneth traced it lightly with a fingernail. '_Ogre'. _She thought, or maybe a shriek, the damn things had claws worse than a werewolf's. They'd been through so many scrapes, sometimes escaping by the sheerest luck of the draw, that she couldn't recall who'd been injured in what fight.

Gwyneth's own body was free of scars, though not from any blessing from the Maker that kept her from being hurt. Despite the protection of her companions, and the loose skills she'd picked up from Zevran, there had of course been instances where she was nicked, punched, pummeled, thrown, sliced, bitten, stabbed and all other incidents in that category. Healing magic had helped, and the bitter potions Gwyneth had choked down during the Blight had taken the edge off her pain, but there still would have been scars.

Her eyes drifted to the dresser, her creams, lotions and powders sat atop it. Most had the correct labels on them, a sheen of the wax that kept the parchment stuck there, caught in the light, glinted and reminded her of her 'miracle' cure. Culcae cream, hidden inside an innocuous tin that was labeled 'peppermint cream' and did indeed have the fragrance in it. Alistair would never go snooping, knowing that Gwyneth used peppermint cream to ease the pain of her monthly cramps and it was that assurance that kept her relaxed enough to keep the liniment in open view. If Alistair knew what was really in it, she'd never hear the end of it. The one time he'd caught her using it, he'd made certain to tell Wynne, and a long lecture of the dangers of regularly using culcae was forthcoming.

_"This could poison your blood! It is only to be used in the most grievous of instances, not _all_ the time! You had to have known that. Why use it? Does your beauty mean _that_ much to you?"_

Gwyneth had promised never to use it again, but the next scar had come along, and she'd panicked, her vanity making her imagine what her circle of noblewomen would think to see proof of her less than ladylike life during the Blight. Marks of combat she couldn't hide or talk her way out of, and she'd gone back to the cream. _Just one more time_. Just _one _more, she always said, and she'd watched for signs of the blood poisoning the culcae root could cause in absorbable cream, but she hadn't stopped. The bite that shouldn't have been there had been the most recent, and Gwyneth ran a palm across her thigh, to find it blissfully free of the marks left behind by Urthemiel's teeth. It was almost as if it had never happened, and that alone was worth the price.

Culcae had its risks, but she found herself willing to take them. The alternative was not very attractive, and she knew how much people judged on appearances. Wynne hadn't understood that, and neither did Alistair. '_How could they? A circle mage and a man. They could both get away with what I could not_. _No one cares what a circle mage looks like, only what danger their magic might pose, and no one cares if their king is scarred, sometimes it makes Alistair seem more impressive.'_

In men, some scars could be found attractive, adding to their masculine ferocity. Others were less than so. Gwyneth flinched to think of the horrid, disfiguring scar tissue that had ruined half of Commander Caron's face. Perhaps _some_ men did understand, but Alistair wasn't one of them, though she couldn't say he'd ever hold someone's looks against them, neither was he in the same frame of mind as Gwyneth herself. He'd always taken a note of pride in _his_ battle wounds, and though he didn't go so far as to compare them with the other men in their rag tag band, Gwyneth thought that to be more about the company. Oghren was a drunken lech who could disgust the heartiest of folk, Zevran went out of his way to make Alistair uncomfortable, and likewise the giant Sten wasn't the most approachable of souls. Gwyneth had a sudden image of Alistair hunched down, next to Noble, the only other male in their group, trying to share war stories with her mabari. She snickered at that, despite herself.

He reached out with his hand and grabbed hers, snaring her wrist, as the sleepy eyed king cracked one lid open at her. Blonde locks, even more gilded in the morning light, lay haphazard across his forehead. "Were you touching me?" Alistair's voice was gruff and gravelly with sleep.

Gwyneth shook her head, huffing. "Of course not." She lied, moving to get off the bed. She'd almost escaped when he rolled on to his side, and reached out to wrap his left arm firmly around her waist and dragged her back.

With a surprised squeak and hiss of protest, she was caught. "What are you _doing_?"

Alistair ignored her query and moved just enough to look at her, when Gwyneth finally turned around on the bed. "Where were _you_ sneaking off to so early? I thought you'd want to enjoy the last morning we have in a bed. Next time won't be until Vigil's Keep, all bed rolls between now and then."

"I wasn't _sneaking_, I just have things to do, people to talk to." She tried to fold her arms, but his own was in the way. "Not all of us can stay in bed, waiting on the tender touch of our pretty little healer."

"Still sore about that, are we?" He had the audacity to chuckle over it.

Gwyneth almost slapped him for the fact that he found her irritation amusing, but recalled his injury and restrained herself. "Do you mind?" She didn't confirm his accusation, but she didn't deny it either, mostly because it was true. Instead, she tugged at his arm, trying to remove it from her waist, but instead he sat up and tugged her down to the mattress. "Alistair! Let _go_ of me! You're going to open that wound back up!"

He was smiling at her, looking like a very pleased cat that had just caught a particularly fat mouse. "No, I don't think I will, and my wound is coming along nicely."

"What on _Thedas_ has gotten in to you? Your mood was very bad yesterday, and now everything is all roses? You're _never_ this playful with me." She pouted, refusing to give him the satisfaction of looking at him.

"A _Cousland_, conceding? And _Gwyneth_ jealous over _me_? Well, now I've seen it all."

He was still smirking, and she had the desire to punch him in the face. Instead she smiled back, wickedly. "Is that what you like, to hear that I'm jealous? Is that what Leliana did to win you over? Some cute little _jealous_ pouting, with those thick Orlesian lips?"

It should have worked, bringing up Leliana's name to take the smirk away, but it didn't, and it left Gwyneth without an immediate plan of action.

"You know damn well it wasn't. She never 'won me over' she was just sweet and endearing, easy to love, and still hard to forget, even if I wanted to and I don't, and there was no reason for her to be jealous." His words were harsh, but the tone wasn't. Alistair almost caved, feeling the same guilt that had plagued him of late, and a longing distant enough now that it only made it worse, but in the end, he kept his control, knowing Gwyneth's ploy to escape for what it was. She thought to piss him off enough that he'd stop needling at her, _but Maker help him_, Alistair was having far too much fun with the rarity of taking the high ground from Gwyneth. Instead of letting her get to him, he tugged her closer, nose against her hair, whispering with a wicked glee that he was enjoying too much to recognize as something _she_ would likely to do _him_. "When it was _her_, I didn't even look at anyone else, there was no need."

Gwyneth actually growled, frazzled, put out, trumped, and temper flaring like the lava flows in the Deep Roads, but she couldn't let him win, and turned her head with all the same insidious intent as a demon from the Fade. "What would she say now then, to know how much you enjoy sinking into _me_? Her _dearly beloved_, buried inside me, and enjoying _every_ moment of it."

He moaned, closing his eyes and she would've felt victorious, but when they opened again, they weren't nearly as malleable as Gwyneth wanted. His own catty smile was gone, but a gleam in his eye remained, proof positive that somehow, inconceivable as it seemed to the young woman laying beside him, Alistair had grown a spine at least as strong as hers. "I know what you're doing. Maybe you need to try something else." He took a deep breath, continuing on with his fun, more because he knew it would bother her than for anything else. "Even first thing in the morning your hair smells nice."

"And your breath smells atrocious! Really, Alistair, enough. I really do have matters to attend to before we leave, and I don't like this." She squirmed to prove her point, but his arm may as well have been a steel band for all the leeway it provided. Gwyneth was willing to let him win, _'let him _think_ he won!_', she mentally corrected, if only he'd stop.

"Don't like what, sweetheart?" He grinned into her hair, knowing who was the victor, yet again. Knowing that he was purposely wriggling under her skin. Alistair was entirely certain she would find a way to best him later, just as unwilling to lose the bizarre contest of wills their dysfunctional union had turned into behind closed doors. For now, he had to remember _his _victories for the times that she'd try and take them away.

"_Stop_ calling me that! You only say it to aggravate me! And this, all this . . . _cuddling_. You and I never had this kind of . . . familiarity, and I don't care for it _at all_." She glowered, giving up the useless fight of breaking free, which wasn't much of a fight to begin with.

"I could always invite Mistress Amell, if you are so averse." His tongue was dripping with saccharine innocence.

The response was immediate. "You wouldn't!"

"Aha! I knew you were going to say that." He smiled, nuzzling into the crook of her neck even as she attempted to get away, because the more she complained, the harder he wanted to try. "And no, I wouldn't. Of course I wouldn't, but pissing you off only encourages me, you know."

"You're a bastard! How _dare you _enjoy getting after me like this?" She stuck him in the side with an elbow, but it barely even phased him. "I hate you!"

He only scoffed. "Liar. You could never hate me, remember? You told me that yourself."

"Maybe I was lying _then_, you accuse me of it often enough." She felt a bit smug, when that finally got a hit in, his face flinching for the barest moment, but not long enough.

"No, I don't think so. Besides, if you really didn't like this, if you _really_ hated me, you'd have gotten violent already. The first time I cuddled you, on _accident_, I might add, you threatened to have Noble tear me apart." He recalled that ill fated morning of so many months ago, with a great deal of clarity. Though Gwyneth's face was the same, glower and all, their situation definitely wasn't and he could take a great deal of glee over her anger, _this_ time around.

"You deserved it! And that's beside the point, we're married _now_, I can't exactly go crying off that you took inappropriate liberties with me." She rolled her eyes at his lingering habit of stating the most useless comparisons.

"You could, but you won't." Alistair's personal pride in winning the game of one up-manship against his irritable wife, dissipated with the presented opportunity to find answers she wouldn't give him before. "Gwyneth, why are you so angry? Why does it bother you _so much_, that I know you give a damn? It's nothing to be ashamed of, I feel the same way, and it doesn't make me a bad person, anymore than it does you."

"I'm just . . . this feels . . . odd, really odd in fact, and I don't like it when my vulnerabilities are on display besides. At least not when I can't use them to my advantage, and what advantage is there to be had _here_?" She sagged against the pillows, a posture as defeated as she felt, the infrequent honesty leaking out of her like steam from a kettle that had finally been taken off the flames.

"That's the politician in you talking, and there aren't any politics in this room, it's just you and me." He tugged lightly at one of her curls, urging her to look at him, and when she did, her face was painted with a tired resignation.

"It's never just 'you and me' We rule a nation together, and even when we're alone, the weight of our people is ever present, and if that wasn't bad enough, we both have been guilty of carrying around old ghosts, not all of whom are yet dead." She sighed, world weary. "I know what you're asking of me, but I don't think I can give it to you. I wouldn't even know where to start." A strange whisper of Morrigan's voice, something she had long been suppressing, rasped its way to the surface. Similar words in memory echoed back on _her_ instead from a night she'd tried to forget, and she felt a twist of nausea in her gut. Ignoring it took some effort. "And I can't lie about that, just to tell you what you want to hear."

Alistair shook his head. "No, and I wouldn't like that anyway, but how about a _different_ proposal?"

That drew a smile from the young queen, her admiration for things official, taking enjoyment from his phrasing. "The terms of this proposal?"

"Yesterday, I . . . felt something inside me breaking apart, maybe its gone and maybe it's just turning into something else, but . . . I can't waver in front of the people, because I _am_ their king, I know that now. It doesn't mean there won't still be days where it'll feel like I won't be able to do it." He confessed, carrying the weight of it on his face.

"Alistair . . ." She felt herself softening, but was girding herself against more melancholy than they already had enough of.

"No, let me finish." His hand gripped her waist tighter, almost shaking her so she'd stay quiet, but she did it on her own, and he went on. "All of that, it's the truth, but it's also true that I can't do this without you, and I need you Gwyneth. I need you to be on my side, honestly, because if the only person I can really talk to is _myself_, I'm going to go mad. Though I feel a little nutty already." He smirked, but the humor was short lived. "I need someone to keep me from going over the edge. I need a _friend_. Do you remember what it was like to be friends? Because _I_ do, and I know it isn't as easy as that, we can't just be the same as we were before, but I think we can manage _some_thing." He didn't think he'd ever spoken so quickly in his life, but if he didn't, she was certainly going to interrupt him, and Alistair needed to get it all out before then. "So, my proposal is this. Neither one of us tries to give what we don't think we can, but we both make the attempt at smaller steps, and see where that takes us."

The king was prompted to continue when his wife raised a curious brow. "Maybe we spar a bit more, in private, wouldn't want to give the gossips reason to question how ladylike you are." A wry grin and he went on. "After I can be free of this thrice-damned sling, of course. It'd keep some of the weight off, I know I personally have been eating too many sweet pasties and cheese tortes. Then we could, I don't know, read together, or something? I've a few books that are horrible to get through alone. Just, spend some time, maybe being Alistair and Gwyneth, instead of the King and Queen of Ferelden."

"Read together?" She sounded incredulous, the snide side of her that was never truly gone, lending that distasteful tenor to her voice.

Alistair fought to not get angry at the dismissal he was certain was coming, yet again. "Yes, is that so strange?"

Gwyneth blinked at him, taking in all he was saying. "Strange? _Definitely_, but this whole thing feels insane at times." She bit her lip in thought, as he watched intently. The idea that they could ever 'not' be the sovereigns of a nation, ever have a moment to be themselves alone, was more tempting than Gwyneth wanted to admit, but also very unlikely. She didn't think they could escape from it so easily, and there were times that the new queen enjoyed her title, and the duties that came with them, far too much to even _want _to get away. But she had to do _something_ to be free from the feeling of careening wildly out of control, losing any and all ties to the king whose reign she was to share until they were dead. "Alright." The air came out of her lungs in a long slow breath. "Your terms are agreeable, Your Majesty."

"Really?" Two dark blonde brows rose together in unison, the pitch of his voice raising with them in surprise, before he cleared his throat. "I mean, ahh . . . that's . . . lovely. Should we shake on it, Your Highness?" He smiled.

"No." Instead she turned to face him, leaning forward for a kiss to his cheek, so quick he barely felt it, but it was there. "How about that instead? Fitting, I think, for your proposal."

"Oh, I can live with that." He smirked, finally letting her go as she slid out of bed, already mourning the warmth she'd provided. Alistair made a mental reminder to tell Teagan how drafty his castle was. "Do you really have to go, or do you just want to get away from me?"

"I have responsibilities, you know, seeing as how you aren't exactly the best at socialization . .. yet, and so that duty in particular, falls to _me_. I must speak with the bannesses over some festival plans we've made for the future and some business with building up my retinue of ladies in waiting, as well as a start on some matchmaking, and don't give me that look!"

"I wasn't!"

"You _were_! At any rate, I have things to do that won't allow me to hermit myself away in here until we leave. All things that would bore you, I'm sure, but necessary all the same. And let's not forget that I have to write back to Commander Caron for you." She prattled on, going behind the screen to change, and peeking her head around to nod at him. "Don't worry, I'll come back."

"To check on Mistress Amell, make sure her treatments don't skirt the boundaries of necessity?" He couldn't resist one last rib, but her reaction surprised him.

With a cheeky grin, Gwyneth shrugged, feeling oddly relieved, in direct contrast to her mood when she first woke up. "Maybe."

It was only after she left that it dawned on him, and he sat up in a hurry, wincing at the tenderness in his shoulder. "_Festival _plans? Gwyn! I thought we said no parties?" But she was gone, and Alistair huffed at that, as a slow sneaking smile curled one corner of his mouth. "Hmph, tricky woman, always a card up her sleeve." He said to the empty room and it didn't disagree.

* * *

A check of her appearance, reflected in a shiny mounted shield, one hand going to twirl a finger through the center of one of her larger curls, and she seemed satisfied. A self indulgent smile, enjoying her own beauty and checking to see if it was still there. Even in the uneven surface of the shield, Gwyneth could see herself clearly, and paused one more moment to push beneath her bust line, situating the corset to lend her the greatest lift for her cleavage. When she was certain all was in order, she set to walking down the hall with a purposeful sway of the hips, certain to capture the attention of the men at the end of it, or one in particular. She called out to both of them, the gentleman of her intent glancing at her, first in surprise, and then trepidation. Neither of them trusted her no more than she trusted them.

"Bann Ponitfax _and _Bann Loren! I'm so glad to have caught you, my good men. Might you indulge me for a moment?" She wore the welcoming false smile that she practiced many, _many_ times.

Osborne blinked owlishly, feeling more than a bit curious, but cautious with it. "Ah, yes, of course, great madame."

Bann Loren stood with him, barely managing to keep from glaring, and he was about to turn away, when the queen placed a delicate hand on his arm.

"I do hope your brother is faring well. Do make sure that Mistress Amell pays him a visit to check on him before she leaves. She seems a bit of a feather head perhaps, but she's a good healer, and it is His Majesty's wish that Lord Zacharius is not made to suffer unnecessarily." The sweet lilt Gwyneth produced was completely feigned, but in her own ears she already knew it sounded sincere, just a little _'don't mind me, little woman that I am, but my strong husband knows all the right answers' _It was a card she played well, and though Gwyneth knew that, she was also aware that this was not going to be easy, and every last bit of her was oozing charm.

"I'm quite sure of that, Your Majesty, and if you'll beg my pardon, I should see to my brother now." Tarquin sniffed, not hiding his lack of enthusiasm or the disdain that prompted his attitude. He paused when the queen gripped his arm tighter.

"Before we're all gone from here, I'd like a word. Perhaps in Teagan's historical library? It's a small one I'm told, but I wish to discuss marital prospects with you." It was a safe enough offer to make in public, with Osborne looking on, but Gwyneth batted her lashes just 'so' to look shy enough to maintain that it was to be a very proper meeting.

"Her Majesty is lovely as ever this morning, and no doubt good Bann Loren would find you equally so, but I think you are perhaps _already _married." Bann Pontifax interjected, the absolute falsity of his compliments bolstered by an equally insincere laugh, sharing the rib with squinted eyes over Gwyneth's head, earning the briefest grin from Bann Loren.

The queen smiled coyly, a fabricated twitter of laughter as she lightly pressed a free hand to Osborne's shoulder. "Ah, such a robust sense of humor, I'm sure your fine lady wife must appreciate that." She turned back to Tarquin, waiting as the younger man finally nodded.

"As Her Highness wishes, in the hour then? I really must see to Zacharius and get our things in order, as I'm sure My Queen has her own matters to attend to." He took her hand to plant a short kiss atop it, both himself and Osborne despising the woman, but just as good at pretense as she was.

Gwyneth nodded gracefully, faring him well as she offered her attention to the portly Bann of Kesteven. "And how does my dear Bann Osborne fare?"

"Well enough, Majesty, as can be expected in these dark times."

"Quite, quite, and I must say, that I should applaud you for standing by the decision of good King Alistair yesterday. Milord husband is always appreciative of loyalty, and rewards it in kind with the ferocity that is shown to those less than so." It was certainly a threat, but with a cordial mask over it to keep anyone from inferring such.

"Not at all, madame, it is the duty of _all _loyal Fereldans to stand by what is right and just." The older man's voice had a deep gravelly cast, gruff but not overmuch. It betrayed nothing of his true feelings, despite his demeanor most of the time.

As they passed room after room, Gwyneth let herself be escorted by the bann, as they bandied useless words in an effort to try and discern what the other one wanted. She looked into the rooms, watching for Banness Pontifax, and was rewarded as she spied the woman, waiting with Lord Braddock Strathclyde, Bann Ferrenly's second born son and two years Victoria's junior. The queen plastered a wide grin on her face.

"And of course, that your lovely wife also stood by you, such a dutiful and _faithful_ lady . . . but look! She is to be stolen away by the handsome young Lord Braddock, and right before our very eyes!" Gwyneth pressed a hand to her chest in feigned shock, a playful set to her body language, the other arm curled about Osborne's as she leaned into him, sleight enough to still be appropriate, but inferring a certain closeness that was made entirely to attract Victoria's jaundiced eyes. "Not that one could blame the stags for surrounding such a beautiful and vivacious doe. I'm fair certain that you must always have to watch your fine bride, attracting such attentions as she surely must. Thankfully her husband has enough virility of his own in full spades." She giggled, as if in conspiracy, standing on the tips of her toes to whisper in Osborne's ear, purposely letting her breath out in slow little puffs. She was certain she was giving the man goosebumps, and in fact, despite her words about his wife, he was looking firmly at _her_, the glint in his eyes that of a man appreciating an attractive woman, despite his misgivings on her character, and dislike of her in general.

At the look of guilt on the Banness and the stumped face of the lord, Gwyneth laughed shortly. "I jest of course, I'm certain there is nothing but _fidelity_ in your marriage."

Victoria's voice was a touch shrill, though she quickly recovered, the glare on that bitch of a queen lasting only a few seconds. "Darling!" She cooed, quick to disengage herself, curling her arm about Osborne's instead, even as Gwyneth remained, smiling like a pretty little viper. "Your Majesty." A short nod of her head. "My love, I had not expected you to attend tea with the ladies this morning! Lord Strathclyde and I were just talking about how traveling is such a burden, that he wanted to put in an appearance at our tea to congratulate us all on our perseverance as women."

Gwyneth grinned, her eyes hot on the woman at Osborne's other arm, the Bann himself looking perplexed at the exchange, feeling as if there was something going on that he didn't quite understand. "Dear Victoria, surely you aren't suggesting that your lord husband wouldn't likewise want to put in a similar appearance?"

"What? No, no of course not, Your Highness. My Osborne is just the sweetest soul." Victoria stroked her husband's cheek, reaching up with one hand and staring daggers at the smirking queen.

The man in question cleared his throat, feeling more than a tad uncomfortable with whatever this was, and managed to extricate himself from both women. "Darling, Majesty, I would of course love to attend a tea with such beautiful ladies, but I am afraid that I've business elsewhere. Lord Strathclyde may find it equally important, eh lad?"

_'Dear Maker, yes, get me the hell out of here!' _Bann Ferrenly's son wasn't the best at public speaking, but he knew enough not to say that out loud, and settled for nodding in agreement, and left the women behind them.

As soon as the men were gone, Gwyneth rounded on the other woman, temper flaring hot, and seething through her teeth. "Do not think to ever play a game with me, where _I_ am _far _superior and _you_ barely know the rules." She brushed past the petite banness, breezing into the dining hall, and leaving Victoria to glare at her back, not caring at all if she'd just made an enemy of her.

* * *

_'A letter to Commander Caron . . . that was harmless enough wasn't it?' _Alistair was fretting more over the question than he would've liked. He tried to tell himself that it didn't bother him, Gwyneth writing to the man, certainly since she had to until Alistair could write letters again. But the truth was, that it _did_ bother him. She said that wasn't the way of it, that she hadn't been flirting with the Orlesian Warden, but Gwyneth had _said_ a lot of things. Neither had she outright denied it though, offering an aside more than anything, a deflection that was very typical of the woman's demeanor.

_'So what_?' His inner voice asked in self-irritation. Gwyneth had never once said she _didn't_ use her looks or charm to get somewhere that she wanted to be. The woman was relentless when she'd set her goals, he'd learned that much on his own. He could recall her subtle flirtations with King Bhelen, the dwarven noble seemingly not as unaware of the human woman's charms as he'd put on. At the time, he'd almost thought it was funny.

Yet, it still bothered Alistair to think of her writing letters to the Commander, though she'd certainly done so before, but things were . . . different now. 'I'll _just ask her, plain and simple_.' He nodded to himself as he watched Solona Amell hum and move about the room, getting a basket of salves, bandages and unguents ready for the king's trip, so he could treat himself.

Gwyneth had been forthcoming enough since last night, and Alistair was counting on that to continue, and put his mind at ease. The only thing was, if she asked him why he cared so much, which was a frequent question posed at him when similar subjects had come up, Alistair wasn't certain how he'd answer that, because he didn't actually know.

It had been a devious joy last night and this morning, one that until recently he wasn't sure he was capable of, to get under her skin, to have a victory against her. Alistair had glowed in triumph for awhile, enough to push back the rampant shadows in his mind, restrained but never forgotten. Now that the moment was ebbing away, he wasn't feeling nearly as positive about it all. It gave him enough time to wonder why he'd wanted that so badly. An old conversation shared with a very different red head, with a much kinder face, floated to the surface, in time with the smile Mistress Amell shot him, sorting out a few bottles of potions she'd finished.

_"You want her acceptance." Leliana had whispered, close to his elbow as they walked together at the front of the group, leading the way because of Alistair's innate knowledge of where Redcliffe was on the map and Leliana's ability to recognize traps along the road. Bandits seemed to be a far more common threat than Darkspawn, since they'd left Lothering behind them. While Miss High and Mighty Gwyneth didn't like either of them, she had conceded enough that they had _some_ skill, fleeting as she accused it of being._

_Alistair was glancing back, feeling like more of a coward than he could stand, to leave all those people to their fate, Lothering certain to be destroyed. His eyes fell on Gwyneth, chattering in lowered tones with Morrigan, the witch and the bitch nodding in time with each other, an eerie tempo to be sure. She must have felt him watching, looking up to scrunch her nose as if she'd smelled something distasteful, and just as quickly turned her attentions back to their resident apostate. The young chantry sister's question caught him off guard._

_"Say what, now? Whose acceptance?" He raised his brows together, creating a thin line at the middle._

_"The Lady Cousland." Leliana spoke plainly, as if it made clear sense, and it was a wonder he didn't already know who she was speaking of._

_"What? That's ridiculous! I don't give a fig if she accepts of me or not. Which is a right good thing, I'd say, since it's very doubtful she ever would anyway." His face was sour, the tone even more so, as he grumbled under his breath, the air passing through his teeth stopping short when the lovely Orlesian put a hand at his elbow._

_"I do not mean to say the lady specifically, just what she is. Nobility, and I think you want acceptance from their kind more than anything." The words might have been prying from anyone else, but from Leliana, they were colored with a sweetness that almost made Alistair feel embarrassed._

_"You do an awful lot of thinking, for a chantry sister."_

_It was her turn to make a face. "I never took vows, I have said this, but yes, I suppose I do think often. That's not such a terrible thing is it? And besides, it doesn't mean I'm wrong. You told me a bit about this Arl Eamon we are to go see, that he raised you, but never as his own. I can read between your words, Ser Warden, it is a . . . gift, you Fereldans might call it, and between them, I see how much you wanted to be more than you were."_

_Alistair frowned. "I _am_, I'm a Grey Warden. We all have ghosts in our past."_

_Leliana nodded, 'hmm'ing thoughtfully as a shadow of sorrow passed across her face, before it was quickly hidden away. "Oui, that is true."_

_"So? What difference does it make? Doesn't who we are _now_ matter more? The Wardens and being a part of that, it means a lot more to me than the acceptance of a stuck up little brat." He sneered in the brat's direction, but she was ignoring him entirely. Nothing new there._

_Leliana sighed, playing idly with one of the braids that hung near her ears. "I don't know if you are trying to convince _me_, or _yourself_, but I think it _does_ matter, and I also think it shouldn't. You are a good man, with a good heart, who wants to help people. This is obvious, no? If she doesn't see the value of that, if none of her kind do, that is _their_ failing, not _yours_."_

_The smile from the young Warden was broad indeed. "Where have you been all my life?" He was only half joking._

_"Pardon?" She raised a copper brow, before she finally understood, ducking her head shyly and turning her gaze to the roadside. "Well . . . I'm here now."_

_"So you are." He was watching her, the side view of her face showing her pink cheeks, and it warmed him. "Besides, I think I'd much rather have _your_ acceptance, than hers. you have a much prettier smile. I shudder to imagine just what it would take to win _Gwyneth's_ favor, and I don't have any desire to find out."_

Leliana had not been wrong in that early assessment, but Alistair hadn't been lying about not caring to have Gwyneth's acceptance . . . except he finally had it, at least a little, and the feeling of that was almost as potent as that damned lotus had been. '_I shudder to imagine just what it would take to win _Gwyneth's_ favor.' _He saw all the things he had done, and what had earned her genuine appreciation. He had to be vicious and unfailing, he had to become a king instead of a warrior, he had to enjoy the darker aspects of life, prove the strength of his character, to _her _standards. Though some of the things he'd done were not entirely on Gwyneth's shoulders, and that made it worse.

Cutting off Loghain Mac Tir's head for his vengeance, sending Anora Mac Tir to the dungeon to rot, barely flinching when she was killed. Leaving Leliana behind him for the Crown. Fathering who knew what on an apostate mage with the spirit of an old god inside it, to save his own skin and that of a friend. Taking bold moves forward, when even Eamon protested that they ought to go slower, with concerns such as the tearing down of the Alienage wall, opening city contracts for _all_ the races of Ferelden and Thedas beyond, reinstating the Privy Council for the first time in generations. Allowing an Orlesian to become the Warden Commander of Ferelden. Forcefully changing the way the Bannorn pressed their concerns on him, showing everyone what happened to those that were unwilling to work together beneath his rule. Commanding Tarquin Loren to shoot his own brother with a crossbow over an accident, to make a point.

This was who he had become, changes both good and bad, and Gwyneth wanted the king more than she could have ever wanted the Warden. Though even her current admittance was questionable, so Alistair wasn't even sure of that much. _'Was it worth it_?' The woman had the innate ability to show up when someone was thinking about her, as she did then, the knock at the door preceding Her Royal Majesty, while Alistair was still thinking about the answer to his own question.

* * *

As the queen visited with the ladies, discussed autumnal festivals, and the seemingly far off Satinalia Holiday, she paid close attention to how rapt they were, the phrasing used. All the while reminding them how she 'loved' her husband, how she 'adored' his strength, and it wasn't so difficult a part to play, because he _had_ been impressive. Gwyneth had been both parts intimated and exhilarated to see him deliver his judgment. What happened afterwards would set the tone for the future relationship between Ferelden's Crown and The Bannorn for years to come, if not longer than that.

While the bannesses and ladies of the Bannorn offered daughters, cousins and sisters to the queen's household in Denerim, she listened to how they said it, what inflection was used. Able to then weed out who genuinely wanted to take part in the new reign and who wasn't so keen. Of their husbands, Gwyneth would hit an impasse, she knew. Sacrificing some of her own hold to let Alistair shine more brightly had cost her, but also she wasn't at all sure how the old ideals of the banns in the central moorlands would take to a woman with so much say in their government. They'd swallowed it with Anora, knowing the truth of who held the reins of Denerim while Cailan traveled the rest of the country, but it was said in closed quarters that not many of them had been pleased. Wanting to dispose of the 'Golden King' and his common blooded bride.

Though not everyone. The Mac Tirs had legitimate support, some still beyond the peasant quarter that had identified with the late teyrn early on, when he'd been their folk hero, and his daughter their idol. Gwyneth's father had rarely spoken ill of the man, though her mother more than made up for it, and she knew that some nobility were only pretending to dislike him currently, for the sake of saving face with the new king. Even now, the current queen consort had to be mindful of where she stepped and on whose toes. Traitors lurked in the shadows as rats lurked in alleyways. A king beloved by all, was an impossibility, a fairytale king who had no place in the harsh realities of real life.

Her spiteful encounter with Victoria Pontifax had nothing behind it beyond her own jealousy and vengeful desires, she could admit that, to herself if no one else, but once it was sated, Gwyneth had made a concerted effort to strengthen Alistair's position in whatever way she could manage. Doing the job she was entrusted with had put her mind away from that morning, and the uncharacteristic shyness she'd felt over it, but she couldn't postpone the inevitable . . . and truth be told she really didn't want to spend more time with Tarquin Loren than was necessary, even with a guardsmen outside the door.

_That morning hadn't been . . . _wholly_ unpleasant._

Sometimes she forgot that things had ever been easy between them, that there had been camaraderie untainted by the heavy vows of marriage and duty. Alistair was right, he _was_ changing, but there were still parts of him that would remain the same. Though Gwyneth may have chastised him for acting like a ninny, it _had_ put her in a better mood. Her sneaking about with the other nobility, making nice, and trying to repair any damage that had been caused, was oft times an enjoyable duty, but a draining one, and when she opened the door to the bedchamber she shared with Alistair, she smiled genuinely at him. Not even the healer's presence put a damper on it.

Mistress Amell looked up, and she almost flinched nervously to see the queen, but the other woman's countenance seemed more forgiving that morning than it had been the previous evening. "No more bandages, Your Majesty. It'll be itchy for awhile, but I don't think it'll scar either. I've given the king a recipe for a salve he can rub on the skin when he feels the need to scratch at it, though the healing ointments that Bann Teagan's physician gave him are good too."

"Marvelous. Thank you, Mistress Amell. The sling?"

"Oh, he can take it off, though he may want to keep it on while you travel, just as a reminder not to use that arm. The tissue in there could still prove tender, if overly taxed."

"Well, if there's one thing we don't want, it's over taxation. My people say that all the time." Alistair grinned, bolstering his frame against the bed, wiggling so he could sit upright. Gwyneth rolled her eyes at his attempt at humor. He was a bit sick of being talked about, even though he was right there, but one woman didn't get the joke, blinking curiously at him, while the other didn't seem to appreciate it. "Yes, well, can I get out of this bed now? I'm afraid my legs won't work if I don't."

"Oh! Yes, yes of course, I'm so sorry, I should've said that . . . why didn't I say that?" Solona pursed her lips together, shaking her head with a short lived trill of laughter. "I'm so muddled in the mornings, my apologies, Your Majesty." She curtsied as best she could, under the watchful eye of the queen.

"Nothing to be sorry for, I'm the same." The king smiled warmly at her, even as she bit her lip in shyness, still wary of Gwyneth.

"Is that all then? If so, you may leave his items here. I'll see to it that they are packed adequately." A sniff and a highly held head were all that Gwyneth offered the girl, ignoring the sour looks she was receiving from Alistair.

"Of course, and I am to go see a Lord Zacharius Loren for a similar injury before I leave, yes? Your Ser . . . Amstead? He came and told me earlier." Solona brushed her dark hair away from her face, brown eyes flicking back and forth between the two sovereigns.

Gwyneth smiled, turning her head to look at Alistair. "Oh, yes, I think that would be best, don't you darling?"

Alistair was shocked that Gwyneth had been the one who seemingly engineered any kind of mercy, and he nodded, coming out of his dazed state to offer his gratitude. "Yes, that's perfect. Mistress Amell?" He called out to the retreating mage. "You have my thanks and appreciation."

"No trouble, it was nice to get out and about. Good day, Majesties." She curtsied, a quick study to the movements preferred by the nobility, ducking her head as she went out the door, unaware of the queen's eyes following until it was closed.

Gwyneth smirked, folding her arms lightly across her chest. "She's learning to adapt rather well, and I see you two decided against another game of cards."

The young king snorted, rolling his good shoulder until his neck cracked, producing a satisfied sigh of relief. "She was doing her duty, the least you could offer her for her troubles is a nice smile."

"That _was_ nice, believe me." Gwyneth failed to mention, that in the time between last night and that late morning, despite her jealousy, she'd come to the conclusion that Solona Amell wasn't much of a threat anyway. Not to mention that it was Victoria Pontifax that had earned most of her ire. "I've no reason not to be, she healed you quicker than any physician's hands." She walked across the room, true to her word as she went to put Alistair's healing supplies in an order that suited her.

"So . . . sending her off to heal Zacharius Loren? What was _that_ about?"

"Liked that did you? I thought it would help to smooth relations, in addition to some plans for matchmaking, though at the moment Tarquin wasn't well fussed about any of the candidates I brought up, but I'm confident he will cave to my suggestions eventually, for prudence's sake if nothing else. Don't fret, I already told Bann Tarquin to collect Mistress Amell for her services, if for some reason you didn't want to send her, and I had Ser Amstead gave her the added instruction of not being concerned if Loren is scarred. Though, I did say it was _your_ idea, since it was your punishment laid on his brother, yet I said you didn't want him to suffer needlessly after that." She winked, eyeing him cutely over one shoulder. "Very magnanimous of you, Your Majesty."

Alistair laughed, shaking his head in humorous disbelief. "You are . . . something else."

"I should hope so, I certainly don't want to be commonplace. That would be boring, and we don't want that." Her top teeth fretted at her lower lip, as Gwyneth looked at the apothecary satchel that Alistair's healing supplies were in. "You know, I was thinking, now that Wynne is gone, there is no mage in Denerim, only a court physician. If anything like this happens again, the distance between Kinloch and the palace is a bit farther than it is for a mage to come to Rainesfere. We should consider renewing the Court Mage position, for genuine purposes of the title itself this time, instead of just for the sake of a friend."

"Scars aren't so awful a thing, Gwyn."

"It's not just scars I'm worried about."

"Worried about _me,_ then?"

She paused, turning with a start to realize that Alistair had somehow crept up behind her, wearing that same smirk he'd had that morning. "Yes."

"Bah. I'm not that easy to get rid of, I'm like a bad copper, I just keep turning up again, unscathed." He grinned, walking past her to look out the window. Already his knights were preparing for departure. "Well, maybe not unscathed, but undefeated. Look at this! They must have been up at the butt crack of dawn to get all that done already."

"Alistair . . ." Gwyneth sighed. "Must you be so crass?" But she came to look anyway, standing beside him. "They want to impress you, earn your favor."

"They won't after I tell them about Ser Mhairi." He took a deep breath, enjoying the sunlight on his face, but not looking forward to what he had to say to the men in the courtyard, some already turning their heads to notice him standing there. "I don't suppose . . . _you _want to tell them instead?"

She wrapped one hand around his forearm, giving it a rare and comforting rub. "No. _I'm_ not their king. It means more coming from _you_. Which is why I wrote to Ser Caron, telling him how much you wished that it was _you_ writing that letter instead. You can read it if you like, maybe sign an addendum at the bottom if your hand can manage it." The queen ventured cautiously into territory she knew was sensitive. Gerod had earned her respect, but she wasn't certain that Alistair had forgiven him for conscripting Nathaniel Howe the way he had.

Alistair tried not to look as surprised as he felt, that Gwyneth would actually offer that. It was her wont to make her own decisions, and fie on him if he didn't like them, but it seemed she had taken some of their discussion that morning to heart. And if she was going to try and offer him an olive branch of sorts, he could at least do the same, returning her trust with some of his own. The matter of her and Gerod was still there at the tip of his tongue, but he no longer wanted to ask, and if she was willing to let him read the returning letter, there wasn't likely to be any sweet nothings in there.

"I think maybe I'll do just that." He nodded at her, as she turned away to begin changing for the road. "Gwyneth?"

"Yes?" She looked at him around the edge of the screen, face apathetic as she waited.

"Thank you." He smiled genuinely at her, without even a hint of malice, surprised at how good it felt to do so.

"For what?"

"For being honest. I know you think sometimes a person can't always be, and I guess I can see why, even if I don't like it. Nobody is flawless anyway, and I'm sure everybody lies, I know I have before, but it's . . . well it just . . . it meant a lot to me and I . . ." He lost his nerve when she smiled back, the same beaming grin she had offered the day of his coronation. Alistair cleared his throat. "I just wanted to thank you for that."

He had managed to get through some difficult decisions, some made in the darker shadows of his heart, things he couldn't take back. Gwyneth knew that, and had come to respect it, but standing there, looking at her so shyly, she was reminded of how he had once been before, and how she had made friends with that man, despite their immense differences. Maybe what he wanted wasn't so impossible, and so she nodded, the smile still holding on her face. "You're welcome, Alistair."


	48. Chapter 48: On the Road Again

**Disclaimer:** _"Dragon Age: Origins" and all its expansions and additional content is the property of Bioware and EA Games. Large portions of written content within the game, as well as Dragon's Age: The Stolen Throne, and Dragon's Age: Calling, are the creation of David Gaider. 'Warden's Call' is the creation of the Machinima team, supported by Bioware and EA Games. Original scenarios and characters are used under the creative license of the writer, ItalianEmpress1985. No profit is being made and the following story is for entertainment purposes only._

**Words From The Author: **_Forgive the title, my mother was listening to old country music the other day in the car, and it stuck. At least it's what's on the tin, if not high in creativity. :p_

_Greenfell, mentioned in this chapter, is a small settlement that was briefly introduced in the Machinima series 'Warden's Fall'. There were refugees traveling from there to Amaranthine, so I figured it had to be in the general vicinity of the North Road. Speaking of, it's actually a pretty interesting mini web series that used the Awakenings toolset and decent voice acting, to give a little more depth to the character of the Warden, Kristoff than what little we learned about him from the expansion. I'll link to the first of five episodes, in my profile under 'extras' if anyone is interested. The Knotwood Hills are also mentioned in this chapter, from their location in 'Awakenings'_

_A lot of dialogue in this chapter, I tried to get away from it, but the characters felt like they had a lot to say. Next installment has a bit more action going on, so maybe it'll even out._

_**Warning! **__Last section isn't safe for work, you were warned. Though nothing 'too' graphic._

_Speaking of that, and maybe I asked this question before, but I don't think so . . . but does anyone think these additional warnings are necessary? The story is already rated 'M' in general, and by now, everyone knows to expect graphic violence, sexual content, crass language, drug use, alcohol use and all of the above. I don't mind giving out an extra NSFW when needed, but I feel a bit like I'm spoiling some of the surprise in what's going to happen in that chapter. With that extra warning there, it's always either sex or a lot of violence (or both). I was just wondering if everyone would be alright with dropping the extra warnings? Feedback on this is appreciated, though as always you can just PM me with your opinion if you aren't comfortable with letting me know in a review._

_Thank you for stopping in. Watch out for low flying dragons!_

* * *

_**Chapter Forty Eight:**_

_**On The Road Again**_

* * *

June 16'th 9:31, Dragon Age

**T**he air smelled vaguely of wet dog, though it wasn't raining and Noble was dozing under the canopy of the first wagon, nice and dry and recently bathed. It was a frequent complaint of foreigners, though Gwyneth had never noticed, making her the target of a few lobbed insults. _'Well, of course _you _don't notice, you are surrounded by this filth every day.' _Oddly enough, the imagined insult seemed to be tinged with Sten's voice. That was someone Gwyneth hadn't thought about in quite awhile, and as she closed her eyes and listened to the lulling sounds of their travel, she found herself wondering how the stoic Qunari was faring, and if he had in fact encouraged his Arishok to order the baking of cookies as a new dictate of the Qun. His unexpected love of them had certainly suggested a desire to do so. _'We are the servants of the Qun. So we shall eat cookies, and be fat and happy_.' A short barking laugh escaped her, eyes coming open to find Alistair giving her a strange look, seated on the horse beside her, the two mounts keeping pace.

"What's so funny?" His own mouth tugged at the corner, as if he was ready to grin at her explanation, an ease to their interaction that had been missing since they'd been married.

She blinked at him, winding her fingers through the open reins, having come loose as she'd drifted off into her own thoughts. "Pardon?"

"You were giggling to yourself."

"Oh! I was thinking about Sten, actually."

Alistair's dark gold brows rose high on his face, incredulity practically carved there. "Honestly? And _that_ made you giggle? I don't know, that giant always gave me the crawlies." The king shuddered lightly, peering ahead to two knights that led their small caravan. He was soaking in the pleasant moorlands terrain, evening hedging in around them, and the land seeming to change in the shadows of coming nightfall. The silence had been nice for a change, punctuated only by the sounds of the Bannorn and their own travel. Still, it seemed nice to finally chat for a bit, and for once, it was Gwyneth that was the pleasant source of easy dialogue.

He hadn't realized how much he had missed any sort of camaraderie from her, until he finally had a bit of it back, which only made the young sovereign that much more wary of losing their barely renewed partnership. Spending months realizing how underhanded she really was, were hard lessons to learn, and not easily forgotten, but he found himself wishing it was, that they could go back to their first meeting with the knowledge he had now. _'Would I have made more of an effort to befriend her early on?_' Probably not, but it was a nice thought all the same.

She snorted at him, shaking back her long braid in the process. "Bah! You only say that because he threatened to kill you for not standing up to your natural role as male leader, and wanted to lead instead."

Alistair rolled his eyes, remembering that tense moment more clearly than he'd like. "Huge git seemed to completely forget that _you_ were the one giving orders back then."

"No, he didn't forget, he just never thought very much of me, and the only reason I had orders to give, was because _you_ bowed out. Someone had to do it." She glared at him, remembering the times she would've very much preferred that he make some decisions, but he was doing so now, and that reality softened her, the glare becoming a small smile. "You have stepped up to your duties well enough, that I have half a wonder what our Qunari compatriot would say _now_."

Alistair didn't want to ponder those things, lingering guilt over the past making him want to avoid reliving it in any fashion, though curiosity got the better of him. "I still don't know how you got him to back down."

"Bribery." Gwyneth shrugged.

It was Alistair's turn to snort, in disbelief. "_Bribery_? As I recall, he wasn't much one for that. All about duty to the Arishok, that one."

"Mmm, cookies and letting him take Noble on a hunt with him."

"_What_? That's crazy!"

She grinned at him, nodding. "Yes, I know. I can't believe it either, but it worked, distracting him long enough that he seemed to forget about challenging anyone. Not that I think he truly meant to, more just to see how we would react, so he could judge us accordingly in the roles he was convinced we were supposed to be in. Sten was a lot of things, but he possessed very little in the way of guile, I assume most of his kind don't. I can't say that I remember too much of Sage Aldous' lessons on the Qunari, but what I _do _recall seemed to suggest that they are, in general, more fond of the direct approach than any clever planning. With that said, though, I think maybe he was a bit more cunning than I may have given him credit for."

"I just realized how insane we sound. Talking about a Qunari as if he was just another one of the group . . . which he actually sort of became." Alistair shook his head, wiping back a strand of escaped blonde hair from his brow. "You know, that very few would believe that, or half of the people we met and things we did during the Blight?"

Gwyneth snickered. "I'm aware of that, yes. You should have seen my brother's face when I told him where I'd learned some sword craft."

"You mean he didn't instantly believe that an elven Antivan Crow hired to kill you, once defeated, offered his services instead, and that you actually learned something without him trying to assassinate you a second time? Yeah, can't imagine why not." Alistair rolled his eyes, watching Gwyneth with an amused smirk at the ready.

"When you say it _that_ way, it sounds so . . . "

"Made up? Crazy? Stupid? Improbable?"

Gwyneth grinned at him, sharing in his humor. "All of those and then some. Yet, I've heard crazier stories about us, fairytales made up by the publicans and their clientele that are somehow believed more than the truth."

"The one where you and I were engaged in a torrid love affair, which you then ended to marry King Cailan, wresting him away from his first wife with your red haired wiles? Then once my half brother was out of the way, which of course _I_ had something do with in my jealous rage, I had the blood mage we traveled with ensorcel your heart so you'd fall in love with _me_ instead, and the spell still hasn't broken." His brown eyes went wide and dark at that thought.

"Maker preserve me! You actually _heard_ that story? _Where_?"

"The Pearl, when we went to meet up with the Wardens, who turned out to not be Wardens at all and instead tried to kill us. Surprising how often that happens." He shook his head ruefully, at the same time that his mount snorted at a passing butterfly, trying to snap at it.

"Which? Stories that I'm under a love spell, or people trying to kill us?" Her lips were curled in the corner, the top line of her teeth showing in her amusement.

Alistair shrugged. "Both." He was still in a good humor over it all and surprised that he could be. When he first heard that story, he was outraged. Time didn't heal all wounds, despite what old sages said to the contrary, but it did make some sting a little less.

"It figures there'd be a horrible 'love story' concocted at a _brothel_." Gwyneth rolled her eyes. "I never realized the . . . artisans in such places were concerned over much with romance. Maybe the whole 'Oh, you're so powerful, my master! Can I touch your mighty shining _sword_?' routine gets a little boring."

Alistair chuckled, settling back into his saddle, and finding himself relaxed enough that he barely noticed when their party came to a brief halt.

The setting sun was cresting over a low knoll, the sheep grazing there paying no mind to either the sun, or the king's retinue as they passed by. Ser William called back to the king, black faced ewes finally looking up and bleating, irritated at the disturbance to their late snack.

"We'll have to make camp soon, Sire. I was hoping to reach Greenfell before tonight, but that damn wagon wheel . . ." The First Knight lamented, shaking his head at their troubles. Replacing the wheel had taken at least three hours off of their travel time. He was certain the king was going to be in a foul temper about it, their way to the Bannorn certainly didn't make His Majesty any better of mood, but something must have pleased him. This time, he only tossed a hand in William's direction, as if to say it was no never mind.

"Things happen, Ser Aquitaine, besides, I don't mind spending the night in the moorlands. _This_ time of year anyway. Think you that we can make it to that pond near the North Road, past that abandoned farm hold we passed on the way _into_ the Bannorn?" Alistair peered ahead, shielding his eyes from the bright sunset, with a flat palm against his forehead.

The knights conferred briefly before William nodded. "Aye, Sire. Straight as she goes, maybe another hour? Might be dark before then though. Full moon tonight will give us some light, but I don't know that it'll be enough." He watched the stars and lunar patterns and kept track of them, just for purposes like these, and the lads might tease him some measure for it, but the king seemed to appreciate it.

"Just take us ahead, Ser Aquitaine. If it starts to get too dark, we'll just have to make do with setting up the camp wherever we settle."

"Yes, Majesty." He clicked his tongue at the steed he was riding, swinging it back around as he gave orders for the other knights to follow suit.

The caravan drivers consisted of Sers Amstead and Boughton, the former shouted ahead with a laugh. "Long as we don't run in to no werewolves, Amstead here might piss in his armor."

"Go pork your mother, inbred bastard!" Amstead hollered back, earning a round of answering laughter from the men up ahead, apart from Ser Hadrian, who only grunted in displeasure, but held his tongue.

"Alright, that's enough of that talk gentlemen. I want peace and quiet when I'm resting, so don't go thinking to howl in the middle of night and scare everyone either." Gwyneth scolded in the scout's direction.

Ser Boughton raised his hands innocently, before they were back on the reins, the mules snorting. "Would _I _do something like that, Highness?"

"I think we both know you would, good ser." She smiled tightly at him, landing him a look that made his smile disappear.

"As Her Majesty says." He pouted like a child who was just told that he had to come in for supper and couldn't play anymore. For as fierce an archer as he was, no nonsense when focused on enemy and prey alike, Boughton had a surprising tendency towards childish antics.

There was indeed silence after that, until Alistair drew closer to his wife. His face set and unmoving, but humor dancing in his eyes. He whispered at her. "I think you're just scared he'll start on with one of his stories and give you nightmares." Though he could joke about it now, he remembered how plagued she had been by them when they'd journeyed through the Wending Wood, the woman still tucking her blades against the inside of the wagon when she bedded down.

She seemed to have either forgotten about those restless nights, or had purposely put them from her mind. Gwyneth actually pouted at him, cutely scrunching her nose. "I'm not so yellow bellied as _all_ that."

"Of course not." Alistair trilled, tickled by his own teasing.

Not above her own childish moments, Gwyneth stuck her tongue out at him, patting a light hand against the horse's neck when her mare whinnied at a scurrying squirrel across their path. "Not as much as you're suggesting, and besides, I seem to remember telling a frightening story myself, lest we forget the allure of bluebells and the death their 'singing' brings."

"It wasn't _that_ scary."

"Keep telling yourself that, Alistair. Especially as we draw near to the Knotwood Hills, haunted they say, by the long forgotten dwarves of Kal Hirol whose spirits sit in unrest beneath the earthen crust, waiting to drag the souls of the unwary down into the pit with them." She produced a theatrical menacing laugh, drawing odd looks from the knights and a glare from her husband. "What? _I _didn't make that up, I've been hearing that story since I was a girl. Besides, I doubt that one is true. If the Lost Thaig was really that close to the surface, don't you think someone would've found it by now? Last I heard the Knotwood settlers had only uncovered some pieces of abandoned deep roads, long caved in."

Alistair still glared, though he felt a tug of affection that she'd be playful with him without the tinge of nastiness around it. "You just _had_ to say something though, didn't you? You do realize I'll spend half the night listening to every snapping twig and gust of wind? Gwyn, you are a shamelessly wicked woman."

She only grinned, his barb lacking the venom of such accusations that had come before, and her answer much in kind. "If I wasn't, I wouldn't be nearly as interesting."

* * *

The willow trees around the hastily constructed camp, gave off whiffs of air thick with fragrant moss, and as Gwyneth settled against her bedroll, cloak beneath her, she took the air in deep. She loved being in the cities, the availability of new goods presented by the market stalls, the specialty shops that catered to her class, the abundance of eateries and activities, and the overall feeling of life they presented . . . but there was something to be said for the charms of the country.

Noble had returned from a short hunt with a couple of wild hares, his favorite meal, and was eating the spoils set aside for him, looking up at her every few moments with those wide canine eyes. She smiled, and patted his head, enjoying the warmth of her large mabari curled at her hip, having long since grown past being disgusted by his eating. There wasn't much he could do about it, he was a dog, albeit a well bred and highly intelligent breed, but a dog all the same. Cutting his meat up into bits and eating off the tip of a skewer was out of the question. He grumbled at her and she set her sewing aside, the lantern she'd set beside her to see by, lighting the dark ivory of the cloth into a pale orange.

"What's that? Why am I sitting over here with you and not everyone else?" She peered up and looked to the main fire, Alistair finally feeling comfortable enough with his knights to take his meals with them. She shrugged, before turning back to Noble. "I think Alistair has felt left out with the knights, I wanted to give him time to bond, otherwise he'd have to depend on _me _for kinship, and we've seen how well _that_ works out. Besides, _you _are better company. Less nonsense to contend with."

He tilted his broad head, brow line scrunching on that chestnut forehead. Noble whuffed at that, short and low.

"No, we aren't fighting. Surprising isn't it? Try not to get used to it. I know _I_ haven't, because that is about the time that everything falls apart. Complacency is our worst enemy. Be lucky that you are a mabari and never have to be married." She sighed, grinning when Noble whined. "Yes, I haven't forgotten about getting you a mate, but we have to make sure her pedigree suits your own. You want puppies as handsome as yourself, don't you?"

The mabari barked, earning some glances from the far off knights.

"Well then, it's best you leave the matchmaking up to _me_. So no chasing after the ladies, do we have an understanding?" She smiled at his whining agreement. He wasn't happy about it, but he'd do it. "That's my good boy."

"You've finally found a man that listens to you, maybe you should've married _him_ instead."

Gwyneth nearly jumped at the unexpected voice, turning to find Alistair standing behind her, a plate of some kind of fruit held out to her. The undulating campfire was at his back, making his shadow on the ground beside Gwyneth look ridiculously long. She took the plate from him, patting the ground on her other side, Noble still firmly pressed against her hip, and watching Alistair warily, the mabari unsure whether he was going to have to listen to another argument or not. He'd become accustomed to his mistress and her mate, fighting more often than they got along.

"Sit down, you're making me nervous. You know I don't like it when you stand over me like that." She held up the fruit to find that it was red grapes. "Where did you get these?"

"Ser Amstead. He went out looking for some wild strawberries, found those instead. A little on the small side, but, you know." He shrugged, absently playing with one of the laces on his traveling vest, curling his long legs up under him as he shared a spot on Gwyneth's lain out cloak.

"You do realize that he probably stole them off some vintner's land? There aren't 'wild' grapes around here." When Alistair only shrugged, she took one and popped it into her mouth. "Mmm, sweet. I suppose we can overlook Amstead's thievery in lieu of that."

They settled into an amicable silence, Noble shuffling off to clamber up into the wagon, Alistair's eyes following. "Damn dog, probably means to make himself comfortable on _my_ side tonight."

Gwyneth laughed at that, turning to be even more amused by Alistair's petulant scowl. "You know, if you tell him to curl up down by your feet, he will. All he wants is for you to be nice to him, barking commands at Noble will never make him like you."

"Hmph! Seems he and I are alike in that vein."

"Now, don't start on with that again. We've been able to hold our peace for a whole day, would be a shame to ruin it." She popped another grape into her mouth, watching him as she drew her fingers back down to the plate.

"I wasn't intending on it, just stating the obvious." Which was a habit he had noticed in himself, furthered as his eyes caught on her embroidery. "You're sewing again. What's this now?"

"Mmm?" She had drifted off into her thoughts, finally realizing the question, running a hand across the cloth. "Ah, it is meant to be your new crest, maybe. The royal mabari are of course an excellent sigil for Ferelden as a country, but I was thinking that our king should have his own emblem. Calenhad once possessed his own coat of arms, though I strangely find that I can't remember what it was."

"It's a . . ." He peered around her lap, trying to piece together the image from what bits of sewing had been completed on it. "A golden dragon?" A bitter remnant of latent jealousy reminded him that Cailan's amulet had also been a golden dragon, worn around Gwyneth's neck until just recently.

"I've been hearing some of the common folk calling you The Dragon King, and a few of the ladies of the Bannorn told me it seems to be catching in popularity. Wynne would be amused that her passing fancy of a name was captured and run away with by others. We ought to write and tell her so. A very strong title if you ask me, I rather fancy it myself, and well . . . gold seems the best color for royalty." She nattered on, oblivious to his concern until she caught his face. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing, nothing, it just . . . I can't help but think that it . . . well, it looks a lot like that amulet you used to wear." He gestured to its replacement, the green in the golden 'c' catching the orange light of the lantern and the far off campfire.

Gwyneth's eyes darkened, and she let out a long held breath. "Alistair . . . we've had this conversation more than once, so if you are about to accuse me of likening you to your brother _again_, spare us both that repetitive indignity. Sometimes a dragon is just a dragon, and it was just something to keep me occupied anyway."

Defensive and prickly, the Gwyneth he'd come to realize was closer to who she really was than any of her more charming aspects, but at least that much about her was honest, even if not easy to warm to. _And he was trying, damn the Maker if he wasn't! _His nostrils widened, the passage of air not quite a snort, but close to it. "Alright, just . . . I don't know how I feel about it, that title I mean. It sounds a little menacing, don't you think?"

"Menacing? Yes, which isn't always such the bad impression you believe it to be, but also strong and indomitable. Neither of which are traits you should shun, if anything, they'll only help your image and your cause. Such as they did at Loren's sentencing." She was fixing him with a look that she knew would make it hard for him to argue.

He flinched at that memory, looking to her as he had often done, and wished he still didn't. "You really believe that, don't you?"

"I was impressed, and I assure you I wasn't the only one. These changes in you . . . I'd be lying if I said I didn't enjoy being here for that." She grinned broadly, features drawn taut into almost catlike similarity.

He leaned back on his palms, a weary breath escaping past his full lips, eyes glancing sidelong at the woman whose life he was now directly tied to, as she was to his. It was difficult not to get caught up in her enthusiasm, even as Alistair shrank back from the very same changes that Gwyneth professed to enjoy. He thought on Leliana's words again, as he had when they'd first departed Rainesfere. The young king couldn't say he liked how he was becoming someone very different from how he'd seen himself before, but neither could he say he didn't yearn to bask in Gwyneth's rare admiration. What that was worth to him, Alistair still needed to decide, but what he was sure of, was that it was an intoxicating feeling, and just like the black lotus that Gwyneth was fond of, he had to be careful how much he indulged. For his own sanity if nothing else.

Such tumultuous thoughts never led Alistair anywhere conclusive, and it was no different now. He only offered her a half smile, tilting his head in her direction. "Then I guess I'm glad I could do _some_thing to please you."

Noble chose that moment to stick his head between the two small curtains that covered the wagon entrance, and howled, all but glaring at the king and queen.

Gwyneth threw her head back and laughed, gathering up her sewing as she shrugged at Alistair. "I think he's trying to tell us there's been enough chatting and it's time for bed."

Alistair grumbled, but followed his wife, looking up at the night sky one last time before he joined her inside the wagon. He couldn't help the feeling that someone was watching him, up in all that blackness, and he shuddered to wonder what they would think of all that had happened . . . or maybe it was the Maker, laughing. The sovereign had learned some time ago, that their god had a strange sense of humor when it came to the gifts of fate He bestowed on His unsuspecting children.

* * *

They were drawing close to the Coastlands again. No one had said so, but Gwyneth felt it all the same. Highever called to her as it had always done, and the queen ignored it as she had since the fateful night of her departure. She closed her eyes as she bedded down with her husband and tried very hard not to think about it. They weren't going there, Amaranthine was their destination, and she need not fear the ghosts of her family, what they would think, what their spirits would say to all she had done or hadn't done.

Fergus would rescue their home, he'd fix everything and when she finally did go back, it would look as if nothing had ever happened. She told herself that, over and over, like a prayer in the disquiet of her mind, but Gwyneth wasn't so assured. There had been no letter from her brother, no word from Ser Gilmore, or any of the others he had taken with him. All she had was her own faith in Fergus, and Gwyneth knew that faith alone could not guarantee a favorable outcome. If she had relied only on that, she never would've made it out of the Blight alive, and she certainly wouldn't be the queen of Ferelden.

Her short swords were in reaching distance, both providing a sense of safety, and a reminder of what had brought her here, to this time and place. Gwyneth cringed away from those memories, curling down into her bedroll, lulled by Noble's presence near her feet, and Alistair's slow and steady breathing behind her. She finally succumbed to her tired body and mind, sleep claiming her thoughts.

_Her mother knelt on the blood soaked stone, holding her father's hand, eyes fallen down on him, sobbing openly as the dying teyrn raised the other palm, struggling to place it against her mother's cheek._

_"Mama! Papa! No, please, don't send me away!" Gwyneth screamed at them, fighting off the Warden, Duncan as he wrestled her back from the scene, towards the secret escape tunnels. "Come with me, please come with me!"_

_Eleanor reached out for her, Gwyneth straining to take her hands, but Duncan was pulling her away. "Goodbye, Sweetheart." The teyrna smiled through her tears as her daughter wailed._

_There was no moment of pause before the lost Lady of Highever was standing in Ostagar, a kiss shared with King Cailan, the last kiss he would ever have before the battle that took his life._

_Too soon was Gwyneth looking up at what was left of his rotten corpse, hung for display on the ruined bridge of the fortress. She screamed into the Kocari mist, but there was no answer._

_Morrigan stood there, a hand over her swollen belly as red tears of blood trailed down the witch's face. She did not reach for Gwyneth, and though the queen tried to get closer, an invisible wall kept her away._

_"Morrigan! I can't get to you! I need to help you!" She tried again, and failed._

_The wild mage only shook her head sadly. "There is no saving me, you know this, my friend. You have to let me go." The skin of her abdomen stretched and began to rip apart from the strain, rivulets of red running down Morrigan's belly._

_Gwyneth shook her head in denial, but Morrigan was gone, her brother Fergus stood there instead. She reached for him, and for once found purchase, hugging her brother against her. "Not you too, Fergus! Don't leave!"_

_He smiled at her, moving away until he too was swallowed by the darkness._

"No!" Gwyneth sat up, her face puffy and raw with fresh tears, the bedroll clenched in her fists.

Alistair moved beside her. "Gwyn . . . what is . . . what's wrong?" He was quick to wake up. He reached a hand out for her shoulder to find her shaking, instantly worried that she was sick. "Are you ill? What happened?"

Her eyes were wild, the small campfire the knights had kept going let very little light into the wagon. "They left me! They all left and I can't . . ." She hiccupped with her grief, looking into his face, as if trying to find something familiar there. "Are you going to leave too?" Gwyneth's voice had a desperate lost quality that she would never have allowed if she were completely awake, though she was slowly coming out of her nightmare.

"_What_? No, no of course not! I'm right here, I'm here and I'm not going anywhere." Alistair tentatively reached for her, surprised when she let him, and more so when she curled her arms around his neck to bury her wet face against his chest, tears dampening the sleep shirt he wore. "Gwyn . . . Gwyn, it's alright." His voice was low with a tenderness born of his own innate desire to comfort a distressed woman, and the surprise that Gwyneth would allow herself to need him in that way. He pulled back to find her watching him in the dimly lit space of the wagon. There was an intensity to her eyes that was still there, even without sufficient light to see it. "Gwyn . . ." One hand found her cheek, his thumb against the ridge of her nose as he wiped the moisture away, barely remembering that it was his bad arm he was moving around her waist, the bedroll pushed down in the movement wrought by her nightmares.

She wrapped her fingers through the smooth hair at the nape of his neck, and he couldn't tell if Gwyneth was trying to pull herself up, or yank him down with her, and then she kissed him. Her lips were chafed from their trip, but softened by the salty moisture of her crying, and the odd mixture met his own mouth, as he made a noise of shock and pulled away from her, holding her at arms length as if she was dangerous. "Gwyneth . . ." The question that would've followed her name never came, even as he watched whatever had sparked that moment fade away on her face.

"I'm sorry, that was . . . I don't know what I was thinking. I was upset and . . ." Already she was making excuses, covering for the brief window into a sensitivity she didn't want him to know was there.

And Alistair wasn't about to let her. She never finished speaking, because he reclaimed her mouth, holding her to him in the cramped space inside the wagon. Nothing more was said, perhaps because there was nothing _to_ say, just an unspoken agreement their bodies made. Gwyneth moaned against his teeth, easing into him as he pulled her closer until Alistair was on his back, Gwyneth following the movement to lay above him, arms at either side of his head to hold herself up.

They watched each other in the quiet darkness, the king barely noticing that the mabari had left, their solitude absolute but for the distant noise of his knights. He reached a hand up to her, against her face, asking a question without the words, both afraid of the answer and anticipating it. Everything had changed very quickly, from a brief moment of comfort . . . to this, and he wasn't certain he wanted to know why. All Alistair needed to know then was that she wanted it as much as he did.

When she straddled his hips, her own sleeping shirt riding up to bunch around her waist, he had his answer. Gwyneth leaned down to kiss him, her breathless mouth searching his out as his hands went up her thighs. He gritted his teeth at the tenderness still in his arm, but he wasn't going to be deterred, not _now_.

It was awkward, trying to be discreet and comfortable at the same time, since it was neither the ideal place or timing. A tangle of limbs and they'd managed to get their undergarments off, something strangely enticing about still being half clothed, as Gwyneth clambered back over him. Her thighs gripped his hip bones, and he was delightfully shocked to find her so slick and ready at the apex of those long legs.

His hands griped her backside, sliding over the full roundness of her butt to the small of her back, pressing her up towards him when she began to move down. Then he felt that warm heat around him, and it was all Alistair could do not to moan too loudly. Gwyneth was clenching her teeth together, and he could hear how much she was muffling her own noises.

They found a steady enough rhythm, his hands against her back, and her palms pressed on his chest, their heavy breathing filling the wagon with the sounds of their pleasure. When she peaked above him, clenching viciously around him, Alistair bit into his own lip, hips raising off the wagon's floor, the bedroll beneath them damp and hot with their sweat.

She slid off him, rolling to her side with a palm still lain flat against his skin. He took her fingers in his own, trying to catch his breath and figure out what had just happened. It was entirely possible that it had been nothing more than a need wrought from her nightmares, or it could be one more change in the most confusing relationship Alistair had. When morning came, the sunlight falling on them to reveal more than either the king or queen wanted to share, things would probably be awkward.

In the stillness between them, the sound of his own heartbeat in his ears, and Gwyneth's long fingers twined with his, he somehow couldn't be bothered to care as much.


	49. Chapter 49: Rude Awakening

**Disclaimer:** _"Dragon Age: Origins" and all its expansions and additional content is the property of Bioware and EA Games. Large portions of written content within the game, as well as Dragon's Age: The Stolen Throne, and Dragon's Age: Calling, are the creation of David Gaider. Original scenarios and characters are used under the creative license of the writer, ItalianEmpress1985. No profit is being made and the following story is for entertainment purposes only._

**Words From The Author: **_I'm pretty sure I goofed on Fergus' age early on in the story, back before I got my character sheets in working order. I had him at around thirty, I think, but that's impossible if he was born into a free Ferelden (which I made story canon, so now I'm stuck with it), since Maric wasn't crowned king until year 9:03 and Cailan was born in 9:05. So Fergus is 'actually' sandwiched between those years at a firm 9:04, which makes him currently (at year 9:31) twenty seven years old, six years Gwyneth's senior. I'm going to have to go back and look now, I can't stand continuity errors. (Self focused RAGE!face) But I wanted to get this chapter in the bag first, my working hours after the holidays are going to be all over the place and I don't know how I'm going to get any sleep, so better to finish this one before my brain falls out. Coincidentally, I'm kind of diggin' this chapter, it was 'hella fun and I hope you all enjoy reading it as I did writing it. _

_In other matters, thank you everyone for the feedback on additional chapter NSFW warnings. Majority vote was against them, and you all seem to be comfortable just knowing the story is rated 'M'. So I will be dropping them from this chapter forward, so after this, read at your own risk and discretion. I certainly don't want anyone getting written up over reading fan fiction._

_As an off note, the 'red light district' always refers to the section of town where the prostitutes are, but they don't have 'lights' in Dragon Age, so I went with 'red lantern district.' Also 'public houses' were like the old time version of a 'gentleman's club' so not quite the same as a tavern or a brothel, but somewhere in between and usually only for the wealthier well to do men. I think that term actually has a different meaning now, so figured I better clear that up._

_And Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, and Happy Holidays to all of you and your families, may this year end on a good note and may next year be even better! :D_

_Thank you for stopping in. Watch out for low flying dragons!_

* * *

_**Chapter Forty Nine: **_

**Rude Awakening**

* * *

June 16'th 9:31, Dragon Age

She felt a little sore, limbs tired from trying to move around with limited room, but sleep found the young queen easily enough after that, her troubled mind put at ease by the pleasantry of the physical distraction Alistair had presented. Gwyneth was surprised at how easy it had seemed, the awkwardness she would've expected when it was so unplanned never came, or at least not before she passed out from a warm and enjoyable exhaustion.

Even forgetting to put any of her clothes back on, the rumpled sleep shirt she'd been wearing throughout was cover enough as she snuggled back down in the bedroll, barely mindful of her fingers all wound up in Alistair's. His own breathing had slowed down and lulled her into sleep, enough so that she didn't feel anything when he rose before she did, a brief murmur sent his way that he apparently hadn't caught, and Gwyneth was soon sleeping again.

There were noises outside that passed through the haze of her unconscious mind and Gwyneth turned onto one side, bringing the gathered edge of the bedroll up to cover her ear, wishing everyone would just shut up so she could go back to sleep. She'd been having such a nice dream, but it continued, a metallic sound, followed by garbled shouting. Finally she began to wake up, legs stretching out to kick the blankets off her. The wagon moved with the weight of someone climbing in and she smiled in the dimness inside.

She'd thought it was morning, but the campfire was still going. "Alistair, tell your men it's far too early to . . ." Her voice caught when sleep crusted eyes got a good look at her visitor.

"Well, look what I've found. All alone, dolly girl?" The stranger was dressed in cheap leather armor, it creaked as he moved, the stitching obvious even in the half light. His long hair was worn without care, as he moved further into the wagon, short blade drawn and held in her direction even as he grinned. "And here I thought all them fancy tin heads were guarding gold and the like. Found myself my own little gem, didn't I?"

He took in her bare legs with male appreciation, the smile drawn further across a thin face. His accent was Ferelden, and though rural, didn't have the lilt that was prominent in the moorlands. Gwyneth noticed all these things with a stuttered accuracy, trying to think quicker than her mind wanted to. The usual 'who are you' or 'what do you want' seemed like useless questions and she bypassed them. Her own weapons were tucked against the side of the wagon, and even as she remembered them, she slid one leg slowly out so it pushed the blanket's edge over to partially cover them, trying not to behave as if she knew they were there. Even one sidelong glance could give them away.

"Quiet, aren't you, girly? That's alright, not fond of those screaming types." His country speech wasn't so simple as to infer stupidity, but he wasn't incredibly educated either, and as he lowered the blade to move closer, it also became clear that he wasn't the least bit threatened.

_'But why would he be_?" Gwyneth's mind reasoned. She certainly didn't seem dangerous, and as she continued to hold her tongue, the queen purposely widened her eyes, creating the look of a damsel that this man would likely find even more pleasing. Hopefully it would give her some edge of misconception.

There was no way that one lone highwayman could've gotten past Alistair's honor guard, but even the talents of the Knights of Denerim could be tested by a larger group of experienced bandits, and her ears twitched as she finally recognized the noises that had woken her. Battle. Once again her heavy sleeping had put her in a perilous position, but Gwyneth would curse herself later, knowing she had to be careful with her planning. The man's own intelligence would be a factor, and without the certainty of knowing what it was, Gwyneth had to test it. At present she wasn't even certain if the bandits, if they so were, knew that it was the _king's_ retinue they had targeted.

"You got past my husband's guards? I suppose then, that there isn't any use in calling out? I know better than that." She finally spoke, voice quiet as if she didn't want to alert anyone, a louder tone might have set her 'visitor' off.

"The more armor a man wears, the more he thinks there ain't no one that can best him . . . but here I am. And you must have some sense in that pretty head, eh? I might decide to keep you alive." He inched closer, the sounds far away enough that it seemed he didn't have a friend waiting just outside the wagon. "If you're a good girl that is. Can you _be_ a good girl?"

Gwyneth nodded, even moving to accommodate the man. She closed her eyes briefly, Zevran's voice in her mind. '_Sometimes, my Warden, pretending to be weak can be your greatest strength. Let them think they've won long enough that they barely notice anything you do as a threat. This works especially well if you are a pretty young woman, I think, yes?' _Her father had tried to train her to defend herself, but Gwyneth had only ever learned the basics from him, and hadn't been interested enough to learn anything beyond that. It was no surprise that it was the Antivan assassin's lessons that stood out. His sneaky ways had better suited her own nature, and they gave her a sense of comfort now. When she opened her lids, the man was propped over her, but he hadn't moved to undo any of his armor yet. Gwyneth tried not to grimace at his sour breath as he leaned close enough to take her hair in his hands. She expected him to yank it, but instead he pulled his glove off to caress it, taking a deep breath.

"You smell _nice_. Haven't had one that smelled so nice in awhile. You some kind of noble? One of these knight's wives?" He asked, half interested as he ran his now bare hands up her legs.

She could lie, but it wouldn't be very believable, she knew, already guessing that the man wasn't that foolish. If she'd had time to let a falsehood stew for awhile, it might have worked, but a remnant of sleep had built a haze around her surprised panic, and Gwyneth wasn't thinking as clearly as she wished she was. He had said 'knights' not 'guards' which suggested that he _did_ know what kind of caravan he and his fellows had attacked, but apparently not that she was the queen. Maybe he thought the king wouldn't travel with his wife. Peasantry didn't mean stupidity, though it had taken Gwyneth a long time to learn and accept that. "Yes." Maybe it would excite him more, make him less aware of his surroundings.

"Mmm, I kinda like that. Used to be a farmer's son, now I've got a 'lady' under me, all mine for the taking. What you think your husband would say to _that_?" He leered rubbing a rough cheek against her neck, drawing up one of her legs against his leather clad hip.

"I think you have already killed my husband, and I ask now only that you take mercy on _me_, sir. I won't fight you." She murmured piteously, watching him as he grabbed her jaw in one hand, as if checking to see proof of her intentions. Whatever he saw must have pleased him, because he smiled, running a long finger across her cheek.

"Well, how can I refuse a proper request like that? Maybe I'll tell my boys that you are _my_ spoil, won't share you with the others. Then again maybe you should give me a reason. Give us a kiss, dolly girl. Words only go so far." He waited, the look on his face may have been comical if the situation wasn't so serious.

Gwyneth swallowed, raising both hands as he watched her like a hawk, she put them at either side of his neck, greasy hair against her fingers making her stomach turn. She pressed herself upward on her elbows, his eyes darkening with lust as he realized she was going to do as he demanded. His breath was awful and Gwyneth tried not to retch, thinking of her husband instead, just to get past this. She pressed her lips lightly to his own, her action tentative enough to maintain the helpless persona she'd adopted, though not all of it was faked.

That seemed to trigger what he'd wanted from the beginning, and he kissed her back, grabbing her head to yank her closer, one hand at the ties to his cod piece, not bothering with the rest of his armor. "You might enjoy a _real_ man between your thighs, bet you've had your fill of noble fops." He growled into her ear, hoisting her leg higher, the hand that had been behind her head, moving to go up her shirt, fondling the fullness of her chest.

Gwyneth moaned in revulsion, unable to stop herself, but he was so drawn into his conquest that he mistook it for something else.

"Yes, that's right. I _knew_ you'd enjoy this!" He panted against her neck.

_'Just a little more_.' Gwyneth told herself, one hand reaching out to one of her blades, the man finally distracted enough that he didn't notice her movements. She ignored all else in pursuit of it, fingers curling around the cool metal fused bone, even as it bit into her palm. Grabbing the handle would make it too long in that small space she was given. If she didn't hurry, she was going to be violated, only moments away from that.

"Not as much as I'm enjoying _this_."

He raised his head, feeling cold dragon bone against the side of his neck. "Ahh, fuck!" He hissed at her, lips in a snarl, unable to move much for the breeches he'd only just managed to get down to his knees. "Guess you aren't just some noble shit's little wife." Even knowing the situation he was in, he wouldn't beg, Gwyneth thought there was nothing that would draw that from him, but it didn't matter. Because she'd won.

"Guess not." She thrust the tip of snake-shaped sword through his neck, blood bubbling up from his mouth almost immediately, keeping the scream of pain buried under the hot gush from his opened throat. It sprayed across her face, even as she smiled, looking mad for the manic grin of victory she wore.

His body shook several times, hands gone uselessly to his throat, the blood already pooling onto the bedroll as he slumped down on his belly, not moving. Gwyneth wasted no time in wiggling out from under him, yanking her shirt back down, and sitting up to spit on his dead body, using the edge of her already stained blanket to wipe the blood off her face. "As if I'd ever let any one like _you_ bed me, _vermin_!"

After her heart beat had slowed, she paused to listen, the battle outside still ongoing. No one had come to check on what was going on inside the wagon. She suspected her assailant had snuck away to come looking for gold, as he'd said. Honest in that at least. Her own armor was folded and put away inside the other wagon, though her clothes were there with her. A sidelong glance was offered to the dead man beside her. "Hmm . . ."

* * *

The Queen of Ferelden stood outside the covered wagon, dressed in a dead bandit's bloody armor, the hood of his cloak pulled up to conceal what she could of her face. She pressed herself against the wagon, checking for hidden pockets and any more weapons, but there were none. His own short sword was held in her hand, as she ignored the stink of his armor, now worse by the blood that had soaked the neck of it. If she'd brought her own, she might not be able to blend in, and she couldn't see who was winning the battle yet. Whatever had happened was on the other side of the wagon, everything a dark orange from the roaring, if abandoned, campfire. It seemed the knights had purposely drawn their fight away from the wagons, and a swell of pride filled her to think of them.

She lowered her voice to just above a whisper, calling to her mabari, and hoping his sensitive hearing would pick up on it. "_Noble? Come to me now, my boy, come on baby. Noble? Where are you?_" Gwyneth stopped when she heard someone coming, her heart caught beneath her ribs. She wasn't prepared for this, and unlike Alistair, she couldn't slam her way though an opponent. A fist was curled around the pummel of her borrowed sword, a stinging sensation emanating from where her own blade had cut into her palm. She bit into her bottom lip, but didn't let go.

"Andraste's tits, hurry it up, Ben. Ain't got all night! We need to get fuck out of here! Teyrn's men caught up to us. We could barely take the king's guard, not the teyrn's bunch too. We don't leave, we're dead!" A young man, dressed in similar armor to what Gwyneth had confiscated stuck his head around the wagon, dark hair cut short and rumpled as he ran a nervous hand through it. He skittered around the corner, grabbing a hold of Gwyneth's elbow. "Didn't you hear me? We need to leave, can't be . . . hang on! Who the hell are _you_?"

Gwyneth tilted her head up to smile at him, his hand still on her arm in his confusion. "Well, I'm not Ben." She ran the dead bandit's sword through his partner, the man's face frozen in a look of surprise as she left him on the hard ground where he'd fallen, sneaking to the edge of the caravan wagon. There were several men fighting, though she could only make out a few of Alistair's knights from the armor they wore, the night too dark to see very much of anything. She hissed and turned back. The man was still moaning, curled up, with his hands on his bleeding gut. Gwyneth came back to put a foot on his chest, pressing him back down. She held the short sword above his neck. "You said the teyrn's men . . . what teyrn, has some idiot given themselves the title, thinking the king is weak? Tell me and I'll spare you, or you can hold your peace as you bleed out, slowly. Maybe you'll die and maybe you won't. It makes little difference to _me_, filth."

"Piss off, bitch!" He managed, lips red from his dying spit. Speckles of his blood dotted his ruddy cheeks like a smattering of freckles, but that face remained defiant.

"As you like." She stabbed him through the shoulder as he howled.

"Fucking cunt!"

She ran the dirty sword into his other shoulder. "_I'm_ not the one lying on the ground like a wounded rat. I could keep going until you die. Once more, bandit, what teyrn?"

"Who you think . . ." He burbled. "Teyrn _Cousland_. Thought we killed them all when that coward, Howe left us behind . . . but . . . but the son came back, hunted us . . . then we ran into the king." The man coughed, crimson staining his cheeks where it spilled out from his mouth.

_'My brother is alive!' _Her face broke out in a smile, until she realized that might not be the case for long. She leaned down to grab the fallen man's blade, inspecting it before shrugging and grasping it in her other hand, as she moved her booted foot off the man's chest.

"You are going to spare . . . spare me?" He asked, breathless in his agony, clutching his stomach wound even as his shoulders began to bleed in kind.

"Indeed, we Couslands are good to our word." She smirked at the recognition in his eyes. "So I will spare you as I promised, from a slow painful death, which is more than you and your friends gave to those in my home." Both blades pressed against the man's neck, crossing each other.

"No! W-wait, wait!" The young man tried to back up, wiggling on the ground, wincing in pain.

Gwyneth drew the blades across his neck, pressing firmly and quickly, his head half severed as the life left him. She looked away when she couldn't stand it anymore, liking the idea of vengeance much more than the bloody reality of it, looking too long beginning to roil her guts. Eyes looked to the covered wagon, where another body was laying, and she reminded herself they deserved it, and the young queen could enjoy that much of her own violence, but the results were unpleasant to look at and she flinched, her mind quick to offer something to distract her.

If Fergus was after these men, it seemed clear that they had been working for Rendon Howe at some point, the dead man's words solidifying that thought in her mind. She wiped the blades off on the fresh corpse's tunic, stepping over him to go back to her place beside the wagon.

Still there was nothing to really make out in the flurry of nighttime fighting, and she seethed through her teeth. Careful planning was what worked best, and she wasn't very good at direct combat, and it seemed there was little opportunity for the more underhanded tactics she preferred. Gwyneth wanted to join in to ensure her brother's survival, if he was even out there, and she still hadn't spotted Alistair in his golden armor, unsure if he would've had the time to put it on besides. _She had to think, she had to find Noble, then she'd have protection and she could _. . .

"Stand where you're at, criminal!" A blade pressed against the side of her neck, the tip smoothly metallic and as cold as the voice of its owner.

'_Shit_!'

* * *

"Bastard even killed one of his own. Look at that mess!" Roland Gilmore gestured to the corpse on the ground, two of Fergus Cousland's other knights glancing over in disgust as one held a blade to the offender's neck, leaving him to stand there while they sorted things out. Half the dead man's neck was severed and the wounds in both shoulders matched the still wet gouge in his belly, and his companion was splattered with blood that was probably his. Since Ser Gilmore had been named the Commander of Highever Company, the new Teyrn Cousland had taken him plenty of places where the ginger haired Coastlander had seen a lot worse than what Howe's leftovers had done, but he was never immune to the shock of seeing what so called 'companions' could do to each other in their desperation. 'Every man for himself' seemed a very real concept anymore. He turned harsh green eyes on the one they'd caught, likely trying to sneak away from the battle with his unfortunate friend. "What have you to say? Not much I imagine, your kind never does."

"It isn't what you think, ser, and you'd best choose your next move _very_ carefully." The bandit had a shockingly female voice, one better suited to ladies of court than highway rabble.

"Who are you, and why have you taken up with Rendon Howe's men?" Gilmore asked, moving closer as he bade his own men to keep watch. Just because she was a woman didn't mean she wasn't dangerous.

"I am _not_ with these men, and they ceased to be under Rendon Howe's control some time ago, since the late arl is quite dead. A point on which I'm certain, since it was myself that killed him." She went to turn her head, short swords laying at the ground where she'd dropped them to raise her flattened palms non threateningly. The blade at her neck pressed harder and she hissed. "Do you mind?"

Gilmore nodded at his man to lower the sword, eyeing the woman carefully. "Turn about slowly, and don't try anything sneaky." When she did, his eyes widened and he fell to one knee, bowing his head at her, voice laden with the heavy sound of abject apology. "Your Majesty!" There was no mistaking that face, and he was quick to gesture for the other two men to do the same. "Get down!" He whispered, wincing when they took a bit too long. Lady Gwyneth wouldn't like that. _Queen_ Gwyneth, his mind automatically supplied, but to little end. He had a hard time thinking of her as anything but the Lady of Highever. Most of the days he'd spent with their family had been without her presence, but when she _was_ there, Roland had no time to think about her title ever changing. He'd been a lot more concerned about earning his place in Teyrn Bryce's good graces, and keeping it once he'd done so. Now he was in service to _Fergus _Cousland, and the expectation was even greater than before. Roland hadn't been close to either of the late teyrn's children, propriety keeping him firmly in place, but he did know they both possessed the same snappish nature, easy to displease, and hard to earn trust from. "I am so sorry, if we'd known . . ."

She cut him off, tutting as she picked up the short swords, shaking her head at them in disgust before taking them in hand again, trying not to wince at the slice to her palm. "There's little use in apologizing for upholding your liege lord's command, in showing nothing but ferocity for those worms that would still claim themselves under _Rendon Howe's _name." Gwyneth almost spit at the mention of that man, but refrained at the last second, eyes taking in the three men before her. Two were new faces, though vaguely familiar and she thought they might have previously been in the company of her husband's honor guard. The third was none other than Ser Gilmore, who one might call her savior, the ill fated night that had seen her parents dead and her stolen away to Ostagar. Gwyneth smiled, careful to keep it proper, despite the horrid appearance she possessed, that might make her propriety seem useless. "Though, might I suggest, Ser Gilmore, that next time you are certain of your prey before planning a killing strike? The punishment for that mishap would've have been nothing short of your lives."

She recalled, the last time she had seen the man, standing in the royal hall, just knighted by the king to serve in her brother's own regiment. Gwyneth had been concerned that the kiss of gratitude she'd given him, the night she'd left Highever, would've been mistaken for something else, but he had been nothing but courtly, and such was his manner now. It wouldn't be the first time she misjudged someone, and not the last either, though the queen was quick to tout herself as a grand judge of character. Most of the time she wasn't very far off the mark, but there were such occasions as the knight still on one knee before her. "Come on then, this is hardly the place to lay yourself prostrate at my feet. Get up, I'm sure you'll need your knees in working order."

Ser Gilmore nodded, pressing his sword pummel into the ground to use as ballast, helping his fellows up afterward as they made a quick survey of the scene around them. "As Her Majesty says. If I may, Highness, what happened here?" He gestured to the corpse, eyes never leaving the queen for fear of committing one mishap of courtly rules so soon after another.

"What does it look like? That man would've attacked me, so I used the element of surprise and killed him first. There's another dead man in the wagon, who would likely have . . . " She paused, swallowing past an unpleasant lump. "Also attacked me. Sometimes, my good Ser Gilmore, we cannot wait for the proper time to honorably defend ourselves. Lives are lost in such moments, and the opportunity for survival waits for no one."

He remembered the Lady of Highever and her dislike of engaging in combat training of any sort. It was never a very proper thing for ladies, but most of the other noble born daughters had a least a rudimentary understanding of basic defense. Such was the land they lived in, but Gwyneth had been adamant. Her only enjoyment of the training came from watching others work at it, while she relaxed in the shade with a goblet of cooled mint tea from the under cellar. The Blight had changed more than the landscape of Ferelden it seemed. Roland couldn't help the amused smile that curled the corner of his mouth. "Quite so, Your Majesty." He was quick to let the smile fade, face straightened by the severity of the situation. "The king was taken from the fight early on, he seemed to have injured his shoulder rather badly."

Gwyneth shook her head in exasperation, the disapproval in her tone tinged with a secret affection. "Fool man." She whispered beneath her breath, nodding at the three men before her. "It's good you saw fit to do so, he was actually hurt before hand. His Majesty likely only irritated it, but it could be much worse. Your diligence is to be commended."

"Oh no, not ours, but that of the Knights of Denerim. They were quick to act. We arrived a bit after Howe's rabble descended on your camp, they probably thought it was a merchant caravan. I can well imagine their surprise." Ser Gilmore smirked at that image in his mind. "His Majesty's honor guard had already managed to herd most of the fighting away from the wagons and the main camp when Highever Company arrived, though once we joined in the melee it was obvious our quarry wasn't the threat they'd imagined themselves to be. The Knights of Denerim are no joke, and they were just as quick to secure the king's safety, as they already had thought to secure your own." He paused, extending a hand to the queen, only to retract it, lest he earn her ire. "Her Majesty is uninjured?"

Gwyneth shrugged off any concerns, saving her own distress for later, the adrenaline of waking up and being attacked in such short order, still racing through her veins. "I'm well enough, Ser Gilmore, and I'm glad to hear my husband's honor guard was on point as well. They are indeed no joke, and a good company of men besides."

"That is true, and I'm glad to be amongst them, even if it _is_ in service away from the king. I could ask for no better liege lord than His Grace. He'll be wanting to see you, now that we've set to securing the camp again."

"Who is this now?" Her mind was still trying to put everything together.

Ser Gilmore blinked, green eyes confused that she wasn't immediately aware of who he was speaking of. "Teyrn Fergus of course."

"He's here? He's well?" She grabbed the commander's elbow, drawing him closer to the intent on her face. "He isn't injured?"

"No, great madam. Once he knew it was the king's caravan, he was very anxious to defend it. Though glad to see you were not amongst those fighting, I'm sure. His Grace has not been well in his worry for you, having heard of your trip to the moorlands. We've been tracking the last vestige of Howe's leftovers for over a month now as they kept trying to flee. Securing Highever was no easy task, and the cowards would lengthen the suffering of the teyrn's people by running into the night. Our Grace had been keeping track of any word about where the king might be headed, were he to leave the capital, and once it seemed we might run into _you_, High Lord Fergus was more determined than I've seen him since joining his company." Roland smiled at the thought, wishing, not for the first time, that he'd had siblings of his own, but considering how much trouble they could be, perhaps it was for the best.

Gwyneth took a deep breath, closing her eyes to thoughts of her brother.

* * *

April 11'th, 9:26, Dragon Age

_**"I**__'m _going_ to marry her, Gwyn, I don't know what else you need to know." Fergus trampled the long grass underfoot, his father's crossbow tucked beneath his arm. Arl Kendalls' son, Vaughn, was in the hunting party that day, and he sure as hell wasn't going to let that smarmy bastard get the first kill. His little sister was making that hard, though, trailing after him and grabbing at his free arm, her pleading face trying to look adult but still stuck in the later years of childhood._

_To her, fifteen was all grown up, but at twenty one, Fergus knew better. Sixteen was creeping up on his baby sister that coming August, but she still acted like a petulant child._

_"I need to know if you even _like _her. But how could you? It isn't if you know her at all, some foppish Antivan." She rolled her eyes, crossing long arms before her chest, and trying for all the world to manage the same pose of regal indignity that her mother so often achieved. Gwyneth's voice dropped low in tone, a hint of the voice she'd carry when she finally did become a fully fledged adult. "So uncivilized, those Antivans! Aurelia Hascal said her mother had a seamstress from there, always cussing and fucking up the stitches."_

_"_You _are the one that's foul mouthed and yet my _bride _is the _uncivilized _one? Gwyn, this isn't about _liking _someone, it's about honoring our family and making matches that will solidify both our standing and our prosperity. Maybe you're too young to understand that." The same speech had been pounded into both their heads at an early age, but while Fergus' turn to secure the lineage had come, Gwyneth probably had a few more years to realize her own role in such things._

_"I am _not_!" She grabbed at him fiercely enough that he dropped the crossbow, swearing under his breath and ignoring her as she went on. "It's not fair! You always had time for me before, now you are marrying her, that's all anyone can talk about. Lady Oriana _this_, and Lady Oriana _that_, it's like _I_ don't even _exist_!"_

_He mocked her with his fake sympathy, lips pressed with undisguised amusement. "Aww, poor neglected Gwyneth, for once not the center of everyone's attention." Fergus tutted at her, shaking a finger at her face as she tried to slap it away, incensed even more for his teasing. "You always were a spoiled little cub, maybe this marriage will be good for _you _too. It would be amazing if you finally realized that not everyone adores you."_

_She kicked him in the shin, his unexpected yowl of pain only encouraging her, but when she went to lunge for him, her brother hoisted her over one shoulder like a sack of potatoes, her legs thrashing and her voice high and uncomfortably shrill. "I hate you! Stupid Fergus! I hope when you bed her, she makes your pride wither and fall off!"_

_If she hadn't been still hanging over his shoulder, he would've gaped at her brass laden words. "Where'd you get such talk from? It was Thomas Howe, wasn't it? Is that little snipe after your skirt again?"_

_"I get it from _you_, and he's not a snipe, he's my friend!"_

_"Well, that can't be helped now, I suppose."_

_"You called him 'friend' yourself, you forgetful horse's ass!" She snapped her teeth at him, like the irritable donkey Gwyneth would've likened Fergus to instead. "You even asked him to make the first speech at your 'wedding' . . . or did you forget that too? Calling me a spoiled cub when you are just a vacant headed little boy, yourself!"_

_"I'm not a _boy_!"_

_"You act like one! I'm telling Father about this, that you mishandled me today, the brute that you are!" She smiled when she spotted the teyrn walking back from the far wall of the keep, Arl Howe beside him. "Papa! Papa!" Gwyneth delivered her best distressful wail, pouting when Bryce Cousland only chuckled. _

_He might not have done so if their company had been anyone but Rendon Howe, but the teyrn was comfortable enough with his old friend. "What's she done _this_ time, my boy? And put her down, for goodness sake."_

_Fergus complied, by dropping Gwyneth onto her rump, while the girl stood and lunged for him again, Bryce the one to wrangle her then._

_"Your girl is full of vinegar today. Too much of her mother in her, I'd wager." Rendon Howe observed dryly, only smiling when the aforementioned girl glared at him over her father's palm across her mouth._

_Bryce laughed. "Or too much of _me. _Enough of this now, you are a Cousland and we are in the company of friends, you'll present yourself accordingly." He tutted, Gwyneth finally giving up, as he let go and she huffed, moving a few steps away, arms still folded. "Gwyneth?" The teyrn prompted, his amusement becoming irritation._

_She grumbled, but did as she was told. "Yes, yes . . . fine, but _Fergus_ started it!"_

_The heir of Highever wrinkled his face in disbelief and outrage. _"What_? Why you little . . ."_

_Their father interrupted, wisely so, before it got out of hand again. "Ah, ah, ah . . . manners children."_

_In the end neither of them wanted to admit the reason for their bickering, and the argument withered away, but before Gwyneth could escape back into the safety of their mother's company, Fergus grabbed her, with their father and the arl out of sight. "I want you to be nice to Lady Oriana, because it isn't any fault of hers. A match is a match, Gwyneth, you'll have to learn that for yourself, and try to find something past your own importance."_

_She snorted, narrowing her eyes at him in accusation. "_What _importance? All you ever do is complain about me."_

_He ruffled her hair, smiling at the expected irritation it caused. "You're my sister, even if you _are _a little scamp. Blood is blood, and nothing will change that, not my marriage, and when the day comes, not yours either."_

_"Pish posh! I hope you don't spout this melodramatic rubbish to your new bride, I hear they are connoisseurs of poetry and all that other rot." Gwyneth rolled her eyes, but she was smiling, and Fergus knew that he had her forgiveness._

_The young lord was faintly amused. "I don't know what I'd do without your acidic tongue biting at me."_

_"You'd get lazy and fat, off the praise your doxies down at the brothel lay at your feet." The words were meant to be a tease, but the matter of fact way she presented them made Fergus stare._

_His eyes went from gaping to narrowed. "How do you know if I have doxies or not? Please tell me you aren't going down to the red lantern district. Father will skin me alive, and offer my sewn hide as a wedding present."_

_"Fergus, that's disgusting! And of course I don't go there, what reason would _I _have to scrounge around in that filth?" She inferred the meaning that _he _had reason, knowing that he couldn't deny it._

_"Well it doesn't matter anyway, a man has needs and I don't have to explain them to you." He harrumphed, slinging the crossbow over one shoulder. _

_"That's good, because I really don't want to know about your _needs._" Gwyneth smirked at him, curtseying to compound her sense of victory, for now. "Enjoy your hunt,_ dearest _brother. Try not to get killed, or shown up by Lord Vaughn, that'd be almost just as bad."_

_He threw his free hand at her in a rude gesture. "Love you too, you little shit."_

* * *

June 16'th 9:31, Dragon Age

Fergus Cousland stared down at the king seated against one of his knight's shields, Gwyneth's overgrown mabari sitting next to the sovereign, licking blood off his paws, as his mistress' husband continued to look rather put out. The younger man was still angry that he'd been taken out of the fighting early in the battle, but Fergus didn't care a whit for playing nursemaid to the new king. Let him fuss if that was his wont, at least it was an inheritance he'd gained from his father's side, if his elder brother was any indication. The new Teyrn of Highever had often thought Cailan whined far too much for a king of the people, though the late sovereign had been a right spot of fun at the public houses, the two of them singing together in drunken revelry with a buxom wench or two on their lap.

Until Cailan had taken a shine to his little sister.

Fergus was never so blind to that as Gwyneth would've preferred, but she had been punished for it and taught a severe lesson by their father. Enough so that even when he suspected they were still trading letters between them, he held his tongue, watching his younger sibling with a cautionary sidelong eye. She had covered for him when Oriana had gone asking after him on occasion and he owed her that much.

Now he had Cailan's little brother to contend with. 'Half-brother.' Fergus couldn't keep the sneer from his upper lip. No one had bothered to tell him that their 'Good King Alistair' was also half-common, a bastard _not_ gotten on a lesser noblewoman as Fergus had thought, but a lowly serving maid. All that time he'd been in Denerim, and not a peep had reached his ears. _Had everyone been so afraid to tell him the truth of the matter, that they dared not even gossip around him? And how had he simply not even heard a whispering of it in the palace's halls?_ His own sister had failed to mention the specifics of her husband's bloodline. That perplexed him most of all.

He had thought it was a good match, Gwyneth perhaps reigned in by a more even keeled man, _but he would have damn well put his foot down if he'd known she was selling herself short_! The feeling of being duped into accepting the union was like a toxin from a blade slipped by an assassin's hand, oozing into his blood slowly but surely. _'How could she have agreed to this?_' Gwyneth had always prized herself above all else, and that she would sell her maidenhead and good standing to Maric's peasant blooded by-blow was infuriating.

If not for Arl Wulff mentioning it offhand, something the aging arl had heard in the Gnawed Noble Tavern in Denerim unsurprisingly, Fergus might not have known until his campaign was well and truly over. Who knew how long that could be, with Howe's remnants leading them a merry chase. He curled his fists inside his gloves, the fine capshain leather creaking around his knuckles. There was little to be done about it now, and he could do nothing but maintain his loyalty to the Crown as his forebears had done for generations, but when he saw his sister, he was going to give her a large piece of his mind and then some.

_He was going to _. . .

She was running at him across the field, at one point jumping over a dead body to throw herself at him, and he barely recognized her but for the long cinnamon ringlets, their color matching his own ear length hair. Despite his previous thoughts, a long grateful smile pulled at his lips and he extended his arms out to her, only to be bowled over onto the ground with a painful 'oomph!' of surprise.

"Fergus! Fergus! Fergus!" Gwyneth peppered his face with small smattering kisses, her demeanor much in kind with a young girl instead of the queen of Ferelden. Her mouth was wide in her relief, eyes glittering suspiciously with unshed tears.

He grinned at her, sitting up to hold her, when she slapped him. Shocked, he still found his voice. "What the hell is . . . ?"

"You bastard! You didn't write me, you didn't send word! I didn't know if you were still alive, or if they were keeping you prisoner, or if Highever had burned to the ground with everyone still inside her walls!" She threw her hands about, gesticulating wildly as the victorious men around them paused in congratulating each other, to watch the scene before them.

The siblings were unmindful of anyone else, as if the last two Couslands were the only people in the world. Fergus took a long moment to stare down his sister, neither of them giving up an inch, their stubborn nature matched in every way. Finally he responded, voice curt and sharp.

"I didn't want to write until Highever was well and truly ours again, and there were things _you_ didn't tell _me_, either." Silver eyes narrowed on the shrill voiced female Fergus was unfortunate enough to share blood with. She looked confused, but he couldn't press the point, because he finally remembered they weren't alone, and he said as much. "As grand as it always is to see you, Gwyny-Gwyn, maybe our _personal_ matters can wait until _later_."

Gwyneth colored at that, quick to stand up, wiping her wild hair back from her face. "Ah, yes, of course." She cleared her throat, trying to compose herself and act as if there'd never been a breech of propriety in the first place. Then she saw Alistair and Noble.

The latter came over to nuzzle her hand, sniffing at her armor and growling at the scent on it that wasn't her own. Alistair smiled in spite of his discomfort.

"Hello, dear." He added for her brother's benefit, but the greeting was sincere enough, and the proof of his relief that she seemed well, was written across the lines of his blood splattered face. "If I may, I'd like to know who those men were, why they attacked us and what the bloody hell is going on." Then as Gwyneth and Fergus began to speak at the same time, he raised a hand, eyeing his wife. "But first . . . what _are_ you _wearing_, Gwyn?"

She shrugged, while Fergus watched the two of them, trying not to glare. He didn't much like the situation he'd found here, and it occurred to him that his sister had been left to her own devices for too long. Queen or no queen, now that they were reunited, it was his brotherly duty to set her straight . . . but that would surely prove a monumental task.


	50. Chapter 50: Little Sister

**Disclaimer:** _"Dragon Age: Origins" and all its expansions and additional content is the property of Bioware and EA Games. Large portions of written content within the game, as well as Dragon's Age: The Stolen Throne, and Dragon's Age: Calling, are the creation of David Gaider. Original scenarios and characters are used under the creative license of the writer, ItalianEmpress1985. No profit is being made and the following story is for entertainment purposes only._

**Words From The Author: **_Here we come 2012! Happy New Year to everyone! On that note, let's ring in that new year with Fate and Forbearance Chapter Fifty *woot!*, what do ya say? ;) I dedicate this chapter to everyone that's made it this far with me. That I can write not only for myself, but for you as well, is the greatest gift any author could ask for. _

_A gift for you? No long author's note. :p I had a lot I wanted to say (big surprise) but I think maybe this time I'll let Fergus do most of the talking. ;) Got a lot more into the nitty gritty of his character, or my vision of him. Gotta love that stuck up dysfunction. Go Cousland Pride! . . . or not. :p_

_Thank you for stopping in. Watch out for low flying dragons!_

* * *

_**Chapter Fifty:**_

_**Little Sister**_

* * *

_Hey, little sister, what have you done?_

_Hey little sister who is it you're with?  
Hey little sister what's your vice and wish?_

_- __Billy Idol_

* * *

_**H**e'd waited for death's embrace in the Kocari Wilds after Ostagar fell to the darkspawn, his own group defeated in the cold clammy air of the wilderness, ruins sitting around them like overgrown tombstones. Fergus Cousland's mind had drifted in the delirium of hypothermia and blood loss, to thoughts of his son, his parents, his wife and his little sister. Things always came back to him and Gwyneth, the heirs of Highever, and he wondered what would happen to the teyrnir, who she would marry to secure it._

_Unless the darkspawn swallowed the whole of the world, and he certainly thought it was possible. He'd expected beasts, though Cailan had propped them up to epic proportions with his fancies. _

_Fergus thought Maric wasn't as good at fatherhood as the Cousland lord's own father, because Bryce would certainly have never let _his _son occupy his head with such daydreams. _

_In the end, Cailan was not so wrong, except the king's knowledge of the Darkspawn was sparse, and in truth they were far more the walking reality of nightmares than any passing dream of glory. They'd fallen upon them like demons, consuming flesh instead of minds, slashing and tearing with a horrible strength. That Fergus was still alive was a testament to the superiority of his bloodline, or so he told himself as he lay on the cold earth, holding on to whatever family pride remained when his end teased at the edges of a barely conscious mind._

_There had been shapes in the mist, moving slow, as if cautious. Fergus had hardly been able to lift his head to look, lungs seizing at the effort. Another fit of coughing blurred his eyes further with tears. His luck had run out, the darkspawn had surely come back for him._

'Don't be ridiculous, Fergus, you aren't going to die, you can't die. You're a Cousland, only time will prove your end.' _The phantom of Gwyneth's voice roused him from the mud he had lain in, and when the Chasind had found him, he was smiling. They had thought him mad._

_Months upon months and he was too sick to move, and it brought Fergus no end of rage, so he'd yelled at his saviors, screamed obscenities when the fever came about again. They endured it, knowing his behavior for what it was. Later it would shame him to know he'd ever been that weak, and it would grapple equally with how astounded he was that a man could be sick for that long and survive, but he did. The teyrnir needed him, his father needed him, and Gwyneth certainly couldn't run things until her nephew was older. Oren had to be taught how to be a man, and five years wasn't enough for his son to learn those things. _

_It was while he was readying to leave the Chasind Wilders that had saved his life, that he heard the rumors. His family was dead, killed on the orders of Arl Howe, now Teyrn Howe, for high treason against the Crown of Ferelden. _His mother, his father . . . treason? _Fergus refused to believe it, and outright became violent at the first bit of news._ Dead. All dead. _He was the last of the Couslands. _

_Oren had asked him to bring back a sword, and instead Fergus' mind was filled with images of his son being run through with one. He'd fled into the wilds, early winter chill not able to steal his breath away, though it tried mightily. He made it only a short distance, and screamed his grief. Only a few crows answered, and the Maker offered no more than he'd done for any of his children, that long silence that begged the question of where they stood in their god's grand scheme. Fergus yelled and kicked at the sentinels of the Wilds, their unfeeling bark barely flaking away, nearly breaking his foot against an old stump. Nothing made it better, and he'd fallen to his knees in the snow dusted dirt, succumbing to tears._

_The Chasind remained behind, letting him grieve, and finally it was the old woman that had come out into the trees, placing a hand at his shoulder._

_He'd traveled as well as he could, the medicine woman's son making the trip with him as far as Brackenridge. It was a small town, but he wanted to avoid the larger settlements until he had a better handle on what was going on. Fergus had made no mention of his status or new title, half for safety and half because he still refused to believe his father was gone. _

_A workman's bench had proven a good place to sit and rest for awhile, and the wandering lord had paused in the village square, seeing both nothing and everything. A young girl with gingery hair brought him some Winterberry sprigs, the rebellious bright red of the perfectly round berries stood out against the brackish gray and white of Ferelden in winter. He looked over at her smiling face, bright eyes offering the sympathy of a child who doesn't quite understand the world and its sorrows just yet. He thought of his son and he began to weep in spite of his audience. The little girl laid the sprigs at his feet, patting his shoulder just once. "Don't be sad, the Grey Wardens will save us from the Darkspawn, my Papa said so. There are still some left, and don't you believe what smelly Teyrn Mactir says."_

_"Did your Papa say _that_ as well, little one?" His voice was haggard on the question, but a small smile found his face when she shook her head._

_"No, but people say everyone in Gwaren smells funny, like fish."_

_Her mother called her back in with a shrill "Calila!" and the girl was off. Fergus didn't know if her father had really said that about the Wardens or if it was true, though he _was_ certain that not everyone in Gwaren smelled like fish, but maybe . . . just maybe the world wasn't about to collapse on itself._

_The little girl's words came back to him as he'd stood on one of the watchtower's of Dragon's Peek, hiring himself out as a guardsmen while trying to keep his profile ever low. He'd been there for months and the chill of deep winter was settling in his bones. Ferelden refused to let spring tidings arrive in good order, but such was always the way in mid March. Snow whipping up over the wooden eaves of his lonely tower had made him wish for a large hearth fire more than once, but luxuries were not so easily had if he wanted to keep his anonymity. _

_Fergus' partner for the day had clambered up, shaking the snow off his hood and cracking his neck. "Won't believe what I heard, friend." The man began, conversation the only thing to keep them busy. Watching for Darkspawn didn't prove much of a task back then._

_"What's that, old goat?" Fergus teased back, finding a strange camaraderie with the man, while reminding himself that commoners were not his kind and this friendship was only temporary._

_"Them Wardens be led by King Maric's bastard son. Ole' Calenhad's blood is still going, though I can't guess where they kept him hid all this time. That ain't even the whole rub of it, one of them merchants came in, some dwarven fellow with a simple son, makes good enchanting stones though they say . . . anyways, this merchant swears the other Warden they got with them is Bryce Cousland's daughter, new Teyrna of Highever I'm guessing now, with the rest of them done gone." The older man chuckled. "Damn but if that ain't gonna chaff Loghain Mactir's ass, thought he was rid of 'em I'm guessing and in the clear to do as he pleased, and Rendon Howe is gonna have to come up with some better answers to cover his lies."_

_Fergus leaned back against the railing, stunned. "You don't believe Howe?"_

_"Hell no! Always hated that bastard when he came here to Dragon's Peak, Bann Sighard never much cared for him either, but he was the Cousland's seneschal. Fucked that up, didn't he?" The soldier chuckled again. "Wish I could see the look on his beak of a face when Bryce's little girl gets to Denerim, Maker willing. Hah! A Theirin _and_ a Cousland, imagine that, son, what are the odds?"_

_Fergus took a deep breath, his heart hammering in his chest. If the dwarven merchant was right . . . Gwyneth was alive . . . _his sister was alive!_ Then the rest of the 'news' came crashing down on him. "Did you say Maric Theirin's son and Bryce Cousland's daughter . . . they're . . . Grey Wardens?"_

_"Aye, isn't that something or what?" The old man grinned, briefly, before squinting his eyes down on the barely visible road far beneath them._

_"Or what." Fergus replied, shoulders sagging, because clearly that couldn't be right. He'd half suspected that Cailan might just replace his first wife with Gwyneth, but then the king died. Yet he still couldn't fathom her joining the Grey Wardens instead. His sister didn't know her ass from a hole in the ground when it came to any kind of fighting, her own short swords had barely been dirtied from use at all, and she hated the whole concept of women as warriors. It was an old custom, and to Gwyneth, she'd often professed that she thought it should stay in the past, as it didn't suit her ladylike standards. There was no way that she would be a part of a group known for their prowess in fighting Darkspawn. Not in a thousand years and counting. "Wouldn't believe that if I were you. I can't rightly imagine a teyrn's daughter and a bastard prince becoming Grey Wardens and saving the world."_

_The old man nodded slowly, his voice sounded defeated. "No, suppose that doesn't sound so right. We both know how the nobles can be, eh? Rather sit on their duffer than defend the people."_

_Fergus almost snarled at that, irritated by the misconceptions of peasant simpletons such as his companion, but he recalled that he didn't want to reveal himself until he knew what the political structure of Ferelden was, in such a turbulent time. Caution would serve him better._

_And as it turned out, the old man's rumors had not been such a rumor after all._

* * *

Fergus had put a hand to his sister's shoulder and nodded as she left the scene of impromptu battle, to go wash, Alistair's questions receiving dismissive answers. She was certain the king would press the issue later, more for concern than any needling desire to know what he'd missed, though there was that as well. Nearly pouting as he was to be left out of the fray, but his arm was still not healed enough to swing a long sword for any length of time.

Gwyneth bent at the waist over a small metal tub, taking an earthenware cup to dip in the fire warmed water, thinking back on the events of the evening. Her hair almost looked as if it was bleeding, the water carrying ruddy rivulets into the wash basin. Gwyneth's stomach lurched and the queen swallowed it back with a gag, knowing the blood in her hair wasn't her own. She'd already washed away the evidence of her brutality on her neck and face, the dead man's armor quickly discarded and burned, despite any protests from Fergus' men at arms that they should use sections of it for repair. 'They' were not in that wagon.

_'Now, now, don't feel sorry for yourself. You won, you were in control, and no one had to come to your rescue. That sword was slid into his neck as easily as if he was a stuck pig, and you enjoyed it.' _A victorious smile curled her lips, that inner voice reminding her why this time was different. The first time Gwyneth had been presented with the baser instincts of highwaymen and their ilk had been Castle Cousland, and Noble had to come save her, while she screamed at her mabari to rip the man's throat out. It was just her now, and she was well and whole. Except the victory _wasn't_ whole, because it didn't settle right in her belly, replaced by a nauseating feeling of being afraid of herself.

The other man Gwyneth had left on the ground had done little more than put his hand on her arm, mistaking her momentarily for his own kind, but she'd separated his head from his neck nearly all the way through. Maybe he had it coming for what part he'd admitted in the plan to murder the Couslands, and as a surviving member it might have been a sense of duty that urged her on, familial vengeance and all that, but it wasn't all of it. Some of Gwyneth's reasoning was merely because she could, she'd killed that man, pleading for his life, because she could.

Yet now, the thought of their blood on her, of how they'd both looked, lifeless eyes and limp corpses, made her physically ill. There was something about violence that attracted her like flies to a lit lantern, but the after effects always made her flinch. The part of her that was ladylike and raised to be proper, she imagined. Gwyneth certainly quailed at the thought of her fellow courtiers seeing her thus. _So why was it that Alistair's sentence on Loren had almost . . . aroused her? Why was it that her own butchery had thrilled some dark desire in her not moments ago?_

She shook her head, telling herself that it didn't matter. It was done, that was that, and now she could get as clean as a mere basin of warm water would allow, get dressed in her packed clean clothes, and wash her hands of everything that had passed during their surprise attack.

Gwyneth sat on the upturned basin once it was empty, dressed in her traveling garb as her long fingers worked in practice at her damp hair, looking dark brown for its wetness, as she braided it. She looked up as someone approached her, the fine cloak giving her brother away as much as his confident stride did. Fergus had always moved so, each step having a purpose, as if he never wanted anyone to forget who and what he was, the blue blood that ran through his veins in every movement.

"You are a far sight better now than when I first saw you. All bloodied like that, Mother would have been in vapors by now." He shook his head at her, a faint gleam of humor mixing evenly with the concern.

"Fie on that! You ought to give her more credit, she killed plenty of Howe's men with her bow, before . . . " Gwyneth paused, silver eyes swinging up to lock with those of the same hue in her brother's face. Pain was written there clearly, and she let her gaze fall, looking off into the distance without really seeing anything. "Well, in any case, I'm fine, I've had to learn how to handle myself, Fergus and I'm fine."

He shrugged, the gesture far more apathetic than he was feeling, a sense that came through to Gwyneth as she stared at him, her brother standing beside her and trying to be intimidating. "Maybe so, but you shouldn't have had to. I should have been there, I see that now, looking at the state of things. You here, your _husband_ sitting at the sideline, nursing his wounded pride, instead of defending you as he ought."

"Fergus . . ." She cautioned him before she was set to rail at him, though he surely saw it coming besides, and he showed no sign of caving in before her intimidation. "He was hurt before, it hasn't yet healed and we should not risk the safety of our king. As you would have known had you read my correspondences." The accusation was there in her irises, narrowing and glinting at him in the dimming firelight. No audience was there now to keep them civil.

Morning would be coming soon, the light blue haze of it teasing up in wispy tendrils to what yet remained of the night sky. It lent an eerie back drop to the serious set the elder Cousland wore on his handsome face. "I read them just fine, Gwyny-Gwyn."

"And still I had no returning letters from you, not _a single one_." He lip trembled and she bit it, watching him through drawn down lashes.

He sighed, exasperated with her, and so early in the conversation too. '_What was it they said? The more things change, the more they stay the same_.' Fergus almost snorted his response, hating to repeat himself. "I _told_ you, I didn't want to write until Highever was secure, until I could be sure that victory was in hand."

"So, what?" Gwyneth waved her hands carelessly, the same nature she found in her brother's flippant attitude. "In the mean time I could just stay worried about you? Because, goodness knows, _that _wasn't important." She rolled her eyes at him, his own gaze never flinching or drawing back from hers. "You _must_ have known I was concerned, giving reassurances to the other nobility that you were well, that Highever would be secure soon. Have you a solitary notion how difficult it is to live on mere faith alone?" Her voice warbled, all that fear hidden away, now made plain for him to see. There was relief in finally being able to express it, but Gwyneth was no happier for that, eyes rimmed with wetness.

Fergus' jaw twitched, anger held in check by the protective instinct he felt at seeing his sister ready to cry. "Don't you do that! Don't try to place all your difficulties on _me_, speaking as if _I'm_ the one that's childish and unreasonable! _I _went _back_, Gwyn, I went home, when you were too busy cowering from it, whoring yourself out to a half breed! You honestly think I had time to pen _letters_?"

Gwyneth stood up, bracing herself against her brother's ire, slapping him soundly across one cheek as he reeled back, his eyes bright and surprised before they filled with anger. "How _dare _you talk to me like that! I'm your _sister_!" She very nearly spit at him, their relation the only thing that remained as a protective barrier between the siblings. "And what is this to call your king a _half breed_? You were fine with him before, as I recall, you even made a joke that _you_ felt sorry for _him_, having to marry _me_!"

"_My king_." His laugh was bitter. Fergus wiped a small trail of blood off his lip, where Gwyneth's wedding ring had broken the skin as it pressed against his teeth. "Would that be when you led me to believe he was a _noble_ bastard, gotten on a lady of the court? I wasn't too enthused, but I could understand _that_ at least. The last of the Theirins, and the woman the world _thought_ was the last of the Couslands? Yes I can see what a match that would've seemed, but he's not is he? He's the whelp of a _serving wench_, who spent her life on her knees, cleaning King Maric's chamber pot! Where I bet 'my king' was conceived, on the floor like a _dog_!" She flinched, and he grabbed her shoulders, shaking her, yelling ever more to make Gwyneth open her eyes and admit the truth, that she'd sold herself to a peasant. "I had to find out from Arl Wulff, who thought I already knew! No one told me! Too damned afraid to say anything. '_Wouldn't_ _want to make the teyrn angry_.' Well I _am_ bloody angry! You stupid, careless, little nitwit! What were you _thinking_? That his Theirin blood made up for it? Well it doesn't! Not by a long measure does it even begin to! Blue blood is nothing when mixed with _wash water_!"

Gwyneth was crying, and he stopped, all at once feeling like an ass. It was only worse when one of the king's knights had heard them fighting and came to check on the queen. Ser Hadrian came cautiously towards them, the mountainous man looking cowed for it as he spoke softly. "Majesty? Is all well?" To his credit, he didn't discount Fergus, giving the teyrn a short nod, but it was clear where his loyalty was.

"I'm . . . I'm fine, Ser Hadrian, but this is a family matter and I require some privacy with Teyrn Fergus. Tell His Majesty we shall both be along shortly." She added with a sniffle and a forced smile, but the tall knight nodded, giving one long glance over his shoulder, before he was gone.

"Gwyneth, you know I love you, more than anything. You are all I have left, and I cannot _bear _to have you locked inside the injustice of this marriage. Father would not have agreed to this, no matter his siring, the mother . . . that much common blood is _unacceptable_, and if you are to have children, they should . . ." Fergus began again, lowering his voice as much for her sake as to avoid another interruption from an over protective knight.

"Stop, just stop." She wiped at her face, trying to compose herself. Fergus wouldn't respect her opinion unless she delivered it with the aplomb he expected of her. "He would've been king anyway, don't you see that? Alistair would be the King of Ferelden whether he married me or not. Perhaps the victory would've been difficult to seal without my hand, it's not as if I'm unaware of my value as a bride, but in the end, it surely would've been him on that throne. Regardless of who or what his mother was, his father's name carries as much weight as it has since the days of the Rebellion itself. No one can say it doesn't with a straight face. It is even more so with Papa's name beside it. The two oldest families in Ferelden, there is immense power in those names, let alone the image we create. Should I have denied Ferelden that? Should I have stepped aside and married some arl's son, or perhaps you would've preferred to have me married off to a dwindling ban, the barest hint of legacy to hold on to?"

"You are being absurd! Without father here, the duty of securing marriage fell to me, you could've waited, you _should_ have waited. I would've found a better match for you than _this_!" He continued to hold on to that belief, though already he was certain he had not convinced Gwyneth at all.

"I didn't know you were alive! The match was set, it was done!" Gwyneth snapped, shaking her head with a snort. "It wouldn't have mattered besides, because what match could you have possibly made for me that could be better than this? None, Fergus, there is no prospective groom that would've given me the title of queen, no one but Alistair. Common blooded soil he may have been grown in, but with my guidance he can be more than that, and _you_ were not at the Bannorn. You did not see how he performed the duties of his station. I'm proud to be his queen, Fergus, I am _proud_, and Father would be as well as Mother. I am the _Queen of Ferelden_. Tell me that you could've done better."

"Does being queen mean so bloody much to you, that you're willing spend your nights in bed with a serving wench's son?" He crossed his arms, still keeping his voice lowered, but filled with no less venom.

Gwyneth smiled, holding her head high. He could act superior all he wanted to, because so could she. "Yes, Fergus, as a matter of fact, it does. My crown means _everything_. It means that all of this . . . this _shit_storm that's happened since Howe sacked our home, it wasn't a _complete_ loss. It means I survived, I made it, and I'm stronger for it. Howe is dead, butchered, and I will dance on his grave, and raise up a Ferelden that he could never dream of, while he watches from his pit in Hell!"

She would've kept on, a twisted mania inside her spurring her words, but Fergus slapped her, hard, and she blinked, mouth hanging open as her palm went to her stinging cheek. "You . . . you _hit_ me!" Gwyneth wasn't sure if it was a question or an accusation, still in shock. "I . . . I can't believe you hit me!"

He couldn't have stopped himself if he wanted to, shaking with anger. "You selfish _bitch_! Maybe you never gave a damn about Oriana, your jealousy always got in the way! But Oren was your nephew, and my _son_! He was your blood, _our_ blood, an heir to the Cousland legacy and he's _dead_, and you couldn't give a shit because you have a _crown?_"

"No! It's not like that!"

"Isn't it, Gwyn? You've made it perfectly clear whose side you're on, _sweet_ sister, and it certainly isn't mine! I don't know who you are anymore, but you _aren't_ a _Cousland_!"

_He was going to leave, so much time apart, spent worrying and waiting_. She couldn't allow that, reaching out for her brother, though he threw her hand off, jerking away to snarl at her like an angry bear. "Fergus, Fergus please! Look at me . . . _look_ at me!"

"And what will I see, Gwyn-Gwyn?" Fergus cringed at the seeping emotion in his voice, but could do nothing to disguise his heart, and in the end, he did look . . . only to see what he was feeling reflected in his sister's eyes, bright and shining with tears again. _Was it always to be like this between them, now? Had things become so broken that what love they had for one another was reduced to angry shouts and tears and regret?_ He'd been irritated with her plenty when she was a child, but she wasn't one anymore and the irritation had become something worse.

It was suppose to be his duty to protect his baby sister. Instead, he'd been gone, and her protection had fallen to one seemingly ill suited to the task. "Gwyn . . ." He reached out for her when she said nothing, pride keeping the apology from his lips, but not his stance, and she came to him easily, wrapping her arms around him in kind as the elder Cousland laid his jaw atop his sister's head.

"I _am _a Cousland, Fergus, I'll _always _be a Cousland." She sobbed into his chainmail, not caring for the discomfort of it against the tender flesh of her cheeks.

"I know, I know that little pup." He kissed her hair, pulling back enough to see her face as he took his gloves off and wiped the tears away. "I shouldn't have said what I did and . . . and I certainly shouldn't have hit you like that." His thin mouth quirked up sardonically in one corner, fingers touching lightly at the raw slice on his lower lip. "Though I dare say you struck first."

Gwyneth chirped, a laugh too short to be called anything else, sniffing again before she was rubbing her cheeks, trying to get a look of vigor back into them. "Well, I had to learn a thing or two while you were away."

"So I see." He smiled, bopping the end of her nose with a light finger, greatly pleased at how familiar her reaction was. Scrunching up her face at him and looking disgusted was always her wont and it reminded him of better days. "Though you always were a violent thing."

Gwyneth snorted, drawing away from her brother as they both made a task of smoothing themselves out. "Hardly. If you're referring to that incident with Wulff's stable hands, they tried to kiss me, and the pitchfork was my nearest defense."

Silver eyes went rolling skyward, Fergus smirking at the incident. "Oh yes, and I'm sure you weren't egging them on at all, batting your eyelashes and what not."

"You defended my honor anyway, though didn't you?" She smiled in affection. As easily as they'd fallen into an awful fight, they were again just siblings. A head spinning transition for nearly anyone, Gwyneth imagined, but it was nearly routine for the two of _them_.

"Aye, it seems as if that is to be my fate, since the day you were born. Forever the little sprite, but still my sister, and nothing will change that."

She would've held her smile to hear him proclaim such a thing, but their argument had some weight to it, and she leveled her gaze at him, serious and stern as Gwyneth could be. For the rest of the country, she was their queen, a figure intended to be listened to, respected and perhaps even feared, but to Fergus, she was just an overly tall child. It would be their way until one them forced a different viewpoint. "But things _have_ changed, brother mine, and you can't defend my honor anymore, you don't _need_ to."

"Back at this then are we? Are you going to sing your lord husband's virtues to me, perhaps? I beg you remember your brevity, I don't have the patience for drawn out dramatics." He huffed, posture stiff and unyielding.

"Fergus, must you be so stubborn? You remind me of Father." She kept talking quickly, once he spluttered over that, so he wouldn't have the time to talk her down. "All I'm saying is that this match is done, only the king can undo it now, and if I know you at all, you _will_ maintain the Cousland loyalty to the Crown. It has become as much our legacy as silver eyes and political prowess." Gwyneth looked past the caravan wagons, where the rest of the men were milling around, Alistair sat somewhere amongst them, worrying, she knew. "I cannot deny that his mother was common, but if you get to know him, if you give him a chance, you might find that you are as surprised by his abilities as _I_ am. He's more than his peasant blood, and I would even be so bold to say that there are moments he is more than _Maric's_ blood."

Fergus raised a suspicious cinnamon brow at her. "More than Maric's blood? That is bold indeed. Please tell me you aren't . . . _sweet_ on him."

Gwyneth wrinkled her nose, huffing and puffing over that a good measure before she responded with a terse, "Don't be ridiculous!"

Fergus smirked, trying not to laugh. "You act as if I've offended your personal honor. Oh dear, but I'd almost forgotten how sensitive you are about that." She only glared at him, arms folded across her chest, and he did laugh then, before composing himself. "Just take care little sister, that you don't develop an _attachment_ for this _grand_ king of ours. It will only add to complications and hurt feelings when he takes a mistress, if he hasn't already."

"I know that, of _course_ I know that. Mother hammered it into my head long enough that I'm unlikely to forget it." She snipped, irritated, but her voice got quiet, remembering Alistair's words concerning the incident with Banness Pontifax. "Though, he says he isn't that kind of man."

"Then he's lying, maybe to protect you or to protect himself . . . but don't you believe it. Peasants can marry who they wish, though I imagine even they have their own little arrangements, simple village things. We're different, we have expectations with our unions. Nobility isn't just blood, it's responsibility, and there's no room for romantic nonsense and illusions in those agreements." There was almost a look of pity from him, knowing that there had been many times his own late wife had been hurt because she didn't understand that. He would never wish for his sister to be so disappointed.

She held her chin up, and head high. "I'm more than immune to his charms, such as they are. But don't think to distract me from the real matter here. Forgoing any 'feelings' he is still the king this country needs, and I have to know that you will at least make the effort of trying to see his value. Alistair is . . . unique, and sometimes he doesn't make it easy to see past his common roots, but I swear to you, if I didn't think he could surpass them, I would not have agreed to the marriage, no matter how much Eamon pushed for it."

Fergus shook his head in exasperation, but nodded. "As you say, sister, as you say. I can do no less than try, for your sake, but I make no promises. I will respect Father's loyalist ideals, and stay true to the Crown, of that I assure you. Not for its king, but for its queen, but as for embracing Alistair Theirin as my new liege lord on high, I'll come to my _own_ determinations. If he's worthy, I would see it for myself."

It wasn't quite what she wanted, but it'd have to suffice and she acquiesced. "As you would have it then, I look forward to the moment you realize I was right all along." She grinned at his narrowed gaze, not above the desire for gloating when the time came, as she was certain it would. "I would not repeat any of this to the king. He's sensitive about his parentage, and I'll not endure my husband and my brother falling to fisticuffs."

"Ahh, Gwyn-Gwyn, you just suck the fun out of everything don't you?" She would've snarled and he only laughed, putting up his hands. "Alright, fine, I promise to keep myself in good order. At least in public company."

Before he left, Gwyneth called out to him. "And Fergus?" As he turned, she beamed at him. "I've missed you."

Fergus grinned, sly and wide. "I can understand why, I _am_ rather irreplaceable."

"_Lout_." The queen whispered under her breath, but she was smiling.

* * *

His shoulder felt hot, but at least the tenderness had gone away. _'Useless, bloody useless!' _Alistair glared at the men around them, but it wasn't _their_ fault he was still injured. A sudden surge of anger for Zacharius Loren rose up, but he'd already been punished, and moping over it wasn't going to improve anything. He knew his knights didn't think him weak, but there was a look in Teyrn Cousland's eyes that Alistair was more than familiar with, because he'd seen it on Gwyneth's face before. Those early days of their association when she'd looked at him as if searching for something, only to come away disappointed, finding Alistair wanting of whatever she thought he was missing.

They were off talking alone, Ser Hadrian had said so. The way the knight had turned his head away made Alistair wonder what they were talking about, but Gwyneth wouldn't be happy if he interfered. He knew she'd been worried about her brother, and she deserved some time with him. It didn't keep the relief from his face when he'd seen her though, looking past Fergus as if he wasn't there, when she'd been standing in someone else's armor, but she was well.

When the men had attacked, no one had seen it coming, Alistair awoken from a surprisingly restful sleep, but all of them had been quick to action. He hadn't had time to even wake Gwyneth up, and not even ten minutes into the fight Alistair's shoulder had given out, his knights swift in their defense of him, pulling him from the fray despite his protests. He couldn't reprimand them for it, because like it or not, there was no way he was fit to keep holding that sword until his shoulder had healed.

_'Damn crossbow_!'

So he'd sat and waited, worried over Gwyneth, until she'd shown up, but the sight of her, covered in blood had alarmed him. Though she shrugged it off, saying that she'd been woken up while the fight was ongoing and had to defend herself in a hurry, stealing one of the dead men's armor, since she'd been unable to get to her own in the other wagon. There was something she wasn't saying, he could see it on her face, but it wasn't the time to start questioning her. If Gwyneth wanted to tell him, she would, if not, it'd just lead to another fight, and with her brother showing up, the last thing Alistair wanted was to let their dysfunction show for all and sundry. It'd been nice getting along for a change, he was in no hurry to test the boundaries of that just yet.

"Noble!" A sharp whistle called to the silent mabari at his side, the great war hound lifting his head in a short 'woof!' of recognition, but he stayed beside Alistair. The king smiled and rubbed the dog's head.

Gwyneth made a 'hmph' of disbelief. "You get hurt, and all at once he'd rather stay next to _you_. I think you've won him away from me."

Alistair shook his head. "Oh no, he just feels sorry for me, but I'm under no illusion that he doesn't reserve his devotion for you only." He looked up at her to find his wife looked far better after a quick wash and dressed in her own attire. It still seemed odd to see Gwyneth without a gown, the last couple months he'd gotten used to her in them, and it made the days of the Blight sometimes seem like a passing dream, but the blood she'd worn on her chin and neck suggested otherwise. There was a red mark on one cheek that hadn't been there, and he pointed at it. "What happened to your face?"

She put her hand there, almost forgetting about it, before she shrugged. "This? Oh, nothing, I probably was scrubbing too hard. Blood doesn't wash off so easily."

Alistair knew she hadn't meant anything by it, but the phrase made him concerned all over again. "Gwyn . . . are you alright, I mean, _really_ alright, you look . . . well I don't know, but you hardly seem like yourself."

"I . . ." _'One of Howe's men was going to rape me and I barely avoided that by driving a sword tip through his throat, while his blood splashed on my face' _was something she certainly couldn't say, so she nodded. "I'm fine, of course I need some time to get my mind wrapped around everything. It was hardly the most gentle awakening I've ever had."

"You don't have to say _that _twice." Alistair grumbled, jerking his head in the direction of her brother, the teyrn coming around the wagons to confer with Ser Gilmore. "_He_ seems to be in control of himself. Said he's been chasing that group for quite a while."

Gwyneth looked, a small smile at the corner of her mouth. "My brother is very persistent. He'd have found them eventually, it just seemed that fate decided he should find _us_ as well."

There was pride when she spoke, the kind of inflection Alistair thought she only used when referring to herself. It certainly wasn't the same tone she'd had when she had told him how proud she was of _his_ actions at Rainesfere. Even if there was a time that he could have called her sister, it was never more obvious that it wasn't so, then it was when her _real_ brother was around. Though, considering the direction their own relationship was beginning to go, perhaps sibling feelings wouldn't be the most appropriate thing to have. Alistair grimaced at even _thought_ of incest.

He'd been certain he'd heard shouting, but wanted to stay out of it, and if the two Couslands had been fighting, Gwyneth had gotten over it in a hurry. Alistair cleared his throat. "You two . . . getting along alright?"

"He's my brother." She said that like it explained everything. When Alistair only gave her a blank stare, Gwyneth remembered that it didn't meant quite the same thing to him. "We don't really _get along_, we . . . adjust."

"Your brother seems to be waving his arms around a lot with Ser Gilmore. What's he _adjusting_ to _now_?"

"You."

Alistair snorted. "And here I thought all those dirty looks he was giving me was the Cousland way of saying _'Hey, how are you_?'"

"Don't be foolish." She griped, before taking a seat next to her grousing husband. "Fergus, he's . . . he's been through a lot. Heard some things about you probably, you know how it is, rumors, gossip, that sort of thing, but I talked with him. It'll be fine, he just has to have time to . . ."

"Adjust?" Alistair offered with a sardonic grin.

Gwyneth smiled, nudging him lightly. "Yes."

"You know, we've _all_ been through a lot. How do you know it's worth it?"

They both stared off into the distance for a long while, the sounds of the camp getting cleaned up, cocooning them. Finally Gwyneth cleared her throat. "I suppose it's when you wake up with no regrets, sadness maybe, but still knowing you did your best."

"Do _you_ have regrets, Gwyneth?"

"Of course I do, everyone does, and if they claim otherwise, they're a liar."

"Is this . . ." He paused, catching Fergus sending a terse nod of recognition. "Is this marriage one of them?" That night had been a surprise in more ways than one, some more pleasant than others, but Alistair found himself still unsure of where Gwyneth's mind was in the grand scheme of things.

Gwyneth rubbed his shoulder lightly, standing up and dusting herself off. "No, no it isn't." She smiled, and this time it was for Alistair. "Come on then, let me put some salve on your shoulder, or I'll find you pouting after the next row we find ourselves in."

He relaxed next to her after he took his time standing, Noble watching him warily as if he might fall. The mabari was Gwyneth's but maybe he'd decided that Alistair was worthwhile too. "How can you be certain that there'll _be_ a next time?"

"There always is a next time, Alistair, _always_."


	51. Chapter 51: So Close, Yet So Far

**Disclaimer:** _"Dragon Age: Origins" and all its expansions and additional content is the property of Bioware and EA Games. Large portions of written content within the game, as well as Dragon's Age: The Stolen Throne, and Dragon's Age: Calling, are the creation of David Gaider. Original scenarios and characters are used under the creative license of the writer, ItalianEmpress1985. No profit is being made and the following story is for entertainment purposes only._

**Words From The Author: **_Brace yourself, I'm about to make one of those boring speeches. ;)_

_So, I've been tentative about getting into why Cailan would've wanted a second wife, and what his thoughts were about Anora. That can be a touchy subject in the fandom, as I'm more than aware. The only thing I can do in that scenario is be true to the characters the way that 'I' saw them, and weave a story that makes sense from their perspective. I don't know who was to blame for the lack of children in Anora and Cailan's marriage, though from the game itself I've the suspicion it would've been blamed on her, unfair or no. Nor am I making excuses for Cailan, who I'm quite sure was an adulterer, even if I liked him, I can't make light of that sort of thing, nor would I try to._

_Regardless of that diffusing speech I just made (I think I was an orator in a previous life :p ) I want everyone to be able to just sit down, read a story they like, and come away with whatever opinion is theirs to make. It's mostly just to clear the air of any misunderstandings, with such sensitive parts of the fandom as I'm about to touch on. Fan fiction writing is a bit different from writing your own novel. With fan fiction, I'm playing in someone else's sandbox, and I just want to make sure no one comes away with grit in their eye._

_Not that that's all this chapter is about, but you'll have to read it to discover that for yourself. I'm trying to go easy on spoilers._

_Thank you for stopping in. Watch out for low flying dragons!_

* * *

_**Chapter Fifty One:**_

_**So Close, Yet So Far**_

* * *

_**October 15'th, 9:30, Dragon Age**_

_**H**__e sat in his tent, chin resting in his palm as he tried not to let the men milling outside take his mind away from its thoughts. They weren't all _his_ men, some belonged to the teyrn, and it was those men the king wanted to shy away from, wanting to avoid giving the pensive teyrn another reason to argue with him._

_Loghain had never liked anyone taking command of his men away from him, at least as long as Cailan had known him. He'd been told that things were different during the days of the rebellion, where it was said that at first, King Maric had to prod his friend into participating, but those were just stories to Cailan. Especially when he was faced with the stoic stony faced reality of his wife's father._

_A long sigh worked its way out of the depth of his chest, where the king's heart beat steadily, the same heart that belonged to _her_, and there could be no self-denial anymore. Maybe it had always been meant as hers, waiting for the moment when they'd meet, like in a fairytale, but then, this was life, and nothing was ever so simple._

_Cailan held the letter in front of him, skimming the words written in a flowing script. Celene Dubetrand had excellent penmanship, in fact, the young king imagined there was little about the lovely Empress of Orlais that _wasn't_ excellent. She would make a fine queen, and in time help to heal the rifts between their two peoples. Such had been the case the king had made for himself in his head, never daring to do more than imagine, but time was running out._

_Anora's face haunted him in moments such as these, long and pensive as the chill wind of the Kocari Wilds, snaking its way through camp, sometimes all but howling its unhappiness. She would give him no sons, and the destiny of Ferelden required the line of Calenhad to go ever forward. It was the same legacy that built the foundations of their country, and he couldn't let it die, not for Anora's sake or anyone's._

_She would not see that, and Cailan didn't know that she'd be wrong to be angry. She governed well, the country bending under her steady hand, but she wouldn't be alive forever, and neither would he. Morality seemed far away, until Ostagar, where Cailan had begun to wonder, not only at his mortality, but that of his people. _

_Loghain would try to skewer him for his thoughts if he could hear them, but the teyrn had fallen into battle strategies, and the gruff Steward of the Crown would have no time to worry about Cailan's marriage. The king was certain of that._

_The letter felt heavy for the weight of the decision it required Cailan to make, and it shook as his shoulders heaved up and back down again. This wasn't something he wanted to think about, but he would, because a decision had to be made, and time would not be lenient with him forever. His heart and his head were waging war upon one another, and unlike the darkspawn, Cailan had no strategy for winning such a battle._

_Anora was a great queen, and if only she had been born male instead, what a king she would have made. Cailan would admit it no one, but he often thought she would've made a batter king than he, but fate had not decided in her favor. Cailan had long depended on her support and felt bereft at the thought of losing her counsel. Anora's talent for dealing with dignitaries could not be replaced, her strident patriotism was as unyielding as it was intimidating and had long made her a favorite amongst the commoners, those who had taken great joy when her father, Loghain Mac Tir, had been made a noble. A victory for those not born into the prestige class, and without Anora to place their new hopes upon, it would be almost impossible to bring them a new queen they would love nearly as much._

_Cailan knew these things, just as he knew that Anora _did_ care for him in her own way, as he cared for her. His wife, his companion, and at one time she had also been his friend, but their childlessness burned the vestiges of any friendship to mere ashes of what it'd been before. Their last argument had been a horrible row, her slinging insults that perhaps it was _his_ seed that was cold. Sometimes, Cailan worried on that, and thought about getting a son on his mistress or the ladies that he sometimes sought for a night or two. He'd long made them drink a concoction his court physician had supplied him with, but lately, he'd considered going without that preventative measure, his desperation for an heir filling his mind with all manner of odd 'solutions' In the end, he could not reconcile himself to fathering a bastard. His own father had already done that._

_A sneer curled the king's upper lip, thinking on his bastard brother. Eamon had tried to keep it from him, had made every effort to hold the promise the arl had made to the late King Maric, but the aging arl relented at long last, Cailan's abrupt anger almost stealing the truth from him. He'd been angry, he'd been shocked, he'd been disgusted with his father for the first time in ages, but mostly, Cailan had been hurt. He'd heard whispers from those in his own court, that he was but a shadow of Maric, and he wondered now if his father had thought such a thing himself. _Why else would Cailan have not been enough?

_Even for all that, when he'd seen him, a grip had tightened around his heart. His brother, standing out there in camp as a Grey Warden, earning honor and accolades, though few knew who and what he truly was. Cailan doubted that even Alistair knew his own identity. A Theirin without the name. A sudden affection had bubbled up inside of him at the thought . . . his brother. He had a _brother_._

_Another distraction right now, that's all this was, and Cailan shook his head as if he could be rid of it so easily._

_His mind traveled, almost regretfully, back to the matter that had pressed its weight upon him. Cailan wondered if Celene was so shackled to indecision, a weakness the King of Ferelden recognized in himself and wished to be rid of. He rather doubted it, the Empress seemed a woman that was sure of herself, her values, her ideals and her people. It was the woman's strength, her ability to draw people together as if they were one being, to surpass the chains of old hatreds and embrace a new destiny, that so enthralled Cailan, that allowed his heart and soul to betray his wife._

_There was no doubt that if there was hope of mending the tears in the border between Orlais and Ferelden, it was with Celene. An heir between them would solidify their nations, so they could rise together, but even as high as Cailan's dreams reached, some of Loghain's concerns were not as forgotten as the teyrn imagined. _What if he was right? What if Celene was merely wearing the mask of a friend, when her true intentions were that of a foe?_ Cailan could ill afford such folly, especially during the tense time the nation would know as he took a second wife, with the threat of the darkspawn still likely to linger and make things even worse. There could be no doubt, when the decision was made, and the king had doubts aplenty._

_He didn't want to be rid of Anora, but he could not let his legacy die. He yearned for a new Ferelden united with Orlais, but dared not take such a large risk with the country in a fragile state. But there was another choice, the option that had nested in Cailan's heart, a tiny seed that had grown, rooting deep as the Battle of Ostagar loomed._

_"Your Ladyship." The voice of the knight guarding Cailan's tent, roused him from his thoughts, and he peered through the slim opening of the canvas flaps to see Gwyneth Cousland. She nodded her head in brief greeting to the knight. "Do you require an audience with His Majesty?"_

_She shook her head and Cailan frowned, wanting to go through and tell her it was fine, but it wasn't. Propriety still had a place here. "No . . . No, I . . . should not want to disturb him. Just tell him I wished to speak with him concerning Lord . . . _Teyrn_ Fergus." The correction seemed to cause her some pain, but she shook it off in the face of her public audience._

_Gwyneth was the most resilient noblewoman Cailan knew, and no matter her heartache, he was certain she would find her senses again and dictate herself with fine accord. It was her way, and he admired that greatly. The girl's father had been fond of saying that a Cousland could do anything, and Cailan believed it of the Lady Gwyneth, she who made him believe the same thing about himself. That nothing was impossible if you wanted it badly enough, if you had the inner strength to push through any barricades, what you longed for could be yours. No one had made Cailan feel that way before, and he wondered how it was that a solitary noblewoman had such a power over him, even as he couldn't deny that she did. _

_If Gwyneth asked him to wrap the moon in ribbons and gift it to her, he would climb the highest mountain in an effort to see it done. Instead, she wanted him to find her brother, and Cailan couldn't perform miracles, but he would try._

_"Yes, Your Ladyship." The knight bowed, and she was gone, but her presence lingered in the king's mind._

_Blue eyes fell to parchment worn by his own hands, reading the letter once again, as if this last time would make the decision for him. He read Celene's words, but they did not affect him as they once did. Her milk fair face, flaxen hair and eyes as blue as Cailan's, made a fine imagine, and reminded him of the wintry beauty Anora possessed. Her eyes were dark and deep, and once had held his rapt attention. Celene's would do much the same, he knew._

_But the eyes in his dreams were silver pools on a face that seemed carved by the Maker's sun. She was born of old blood, fertile and strong. Her values were both Ferelden and the token of a new age, her mind was sharp, and her family name was one branded into the legacy of their country. Andraste made flesh once more, his friend, his equal, and his love . . . his pretty, witty, Gwyn._

_Cailan crumpled Celene's letter in his fist, letting it drop to the ground, before he reconsidered, not wanting to leave it where Loghain might come across the correspondence. He didn't need anymore problems from that snooping old man. Flattening it out again, he opened his private trunk to place it inside, hidden with the others from his uncle, where no one could come upon it without the key. He rose to dust himself off, stepping into the sunlight._

_"Majesty."_

_He smiled at his knight. "Good Ser."_

_"The Lady Cousland was here a moment ago, she wanted to relay a wish to speak to you of Teyrn Fergus."_

_"Yes, I know. Can you tell me which direction she went?"_

_"Towards the battlements on the east side of the ruins, Majesty. After that, I cannot say."_

_Cailan patted the man on the shoulder, leaving in that direction. The pondering was done, and it was the time to act on his intentions. Anora could no longer be queen, but Celene couldn't take her place. If there were no other choices, perhaps he would have married the empress anyway, but Cailan _did_ have another choice and such was the one he'd made._

_His uncle Eamon had been after him for some time, hinting about as was the man's way, but he knew what his uncle hedged over. A Ferelden bride, one from a noble family that held the promise of good fertility and blue blood. There was only one lady that possessed both Eamon's criteria and Cailan's fancy, but her parents were gone now, and he knew not how she would take such a proposal. _

_Proclamations on bended knee should not be made on the eve of battle, in any case, and Cailan had not yet found her brother. He wanted to wait, until just the right time, just the right place, but the king's mind was made up._

_The battle of Ostagar would be won, and Cailan would make steps forward, asserting his reign, and Gwyneth would be the woman beside him. He would make her see that she was meant to have the Theirin name, and when they were victorious, Cailan would find her brother, he would ask for her hand, it would be given and everything would be alright._

* * *

_**June 17'th, 9:31, Dragon Age**_

"Everything will be alright."

Gwyneth heard the voice at her back, catching herself in a smile, though she wasn't sure why it pleased her. "And what is it that you think to assure me of, Alistair?" She was rooting through her bag, searching for the etched pearl handle of her hair brush. "Damn! I know I put it right in here with the . . ."

A slim weight settled on her shoulder, and she turned her head but couldn't see it until she took the brush in her fingers, turning about fully to quirk one brow at her husband. Half dressed as he was, the morning light finding the planes of his torso . . . which Gwyneth found to be more pleasing than she would've liked to admit, though she wasn't above stealing a glance . . . or three. "Where did you find this?"

"You left it out last night after you put the salve on my shoulder. Thanks for that, by the way. I didn't realize you could be so . . ." He said nothing for a bit, faced screwed up as if concentrating on a troublesome problem.

"So _what_?"

"Tender." Alistair finished, smiling at her.

Gwyneth blinked, shrugging as she made a fuss over her hair. "You _did _ask me not to brutalize you back in Rainesfere. I thought I'd try something different, but you don't need to thank me _continuously_. You already did so last night."

As much as the woman clearly enjoyed gratitude, or more so the attention it brought, when it was genuinely given, Gwyneth was oddly nonchalant about it, and her mood of late, in general, confused Alistair. What was clear, however, was that she was worried. It was written on her face, the way she held herself so stiff as if waiting for a twig to snap. Last evening, as they'd bedded down to catch what few more hours of sleep they could before morning came, she'd asked that they sleep in one of the spare tents. Alistair had thought little of it then, after all, the wagon they had been resting in had only recently been cleared out of the dead corpse that was inside it, but he had a suspicion that it was more than that. There was a tenseness to Gwyneth now that he'd seen before, the twitchy nature she'd tried to hide when they were in the deep roads. Something was making her nervous, and she was pretending it wasn't.

"Gwyn, you know if something is wrong, if you don't want to talk to your brother about it, you _can_ tell _me_. I know we aren't that close anymore, but I'll still listen." He offered carefully, yanking on his boots so she wouldn't think he waiting on her answer.

"Nothing is wrong, truly . . . I'm just tired." She sighed for effect, standing on her knees to shake her hair over one shoulder, brushing it out as the knots in it caught and snapped.

Alistair winced at the sound, but she seemed used to it. He might be stepping into a dragon's nest by being persistent, but he dared to do it, because more than anything, he was concerned. Nothing good had ever come from Gwyneth's worries. "You asked me why I'd want to reassure you? Well, it's because I don't believe you."

Her back straightened, and Alistair was sure if she was facing him, her eyes would be blazing. "And the morning _was_ rather pleasant until now." She hissed out.

"I don't mean it like that, what I mean is . . ." The king paused, treading carefully. "You keep saying you're fine, but I know you aren't, and with your brother here, I can't help but think you are worried over going back to Highever. I don't know how you feel about it, but I can guess, and I just . . . I want you to know that it will be alright. I'm sure Fergus didn't let it sit there in ruin, if it ever was and . . ." It felt strange to say Teyrn Cousland's name so informally, but Alistair figured he had better get used to it, since the man was now his brother by marriage. _'Hah! At least this 'brother' knows I exist, even if he doesn't care for me that well.'_

Two flat palms were put up, Gwyneth standing, even as she had to bend over to keep her head from touching the top of the tent. "Stop, Alistair, I don't want to hear anymore of this. You have _no idea _how I feel about my home, so don't even bother to imagine it. You can't, and I don't need assurances from _you_ on what _my_ brother may or may not have done."

She was ready to storm out, huffing and puffing over to Fergus, where she could tell him to stuff it as well, at the first sign that he was going to tell her what to do. Gwyneth had dictated her own life and her own feelings for long enough, she certainly didn't need either her husband or her brother to tell her what was and wasn't okay. Even as she knew her irritation had nothing to do with Alistair's words, she convinced herself that it did. Because it was always easier to blame her mood on someone else, instead of facing what she was afraid of.

"You're afraid to go back there, aren't you? To see what happened?" Alistair's voice was soft, and Gwyneth barely heard it, but it stopped her in her tracks.

She turned her head, neck craning. "_What_ did you say to me?" Her voice slid over her tongue like a snake moving out of a pond and onto the wet shore. Angry and spooked by how close his words had come to her thoughts.

He stood slowly, feeling cramped inside the tent, but it was secondary to his focus right then. "I said, that you're afraid. All this time, and you haven't said a word about repairs to Highever, only that Fergus hadn't written you back. You don't even talk about it very much. Your family, your heritage, sure, but not your home. Why not?"

Her teeth clicked together, lashes seeming longer and darker for the way her irises turned to slits, narrowing in on Alistair's face. She spluttered, half formed words bubbling over her lips, but never made into clear sentences. "I . . . you dare to . . . I can't believe . . ."

A braver man than some, he reached out to her, the feeling of her skin trembling with outrage, or so she would have him believe, but _this_ time he knew better. "It's alright, Gwyn, it's alright to be afraid. It's alright to be upset, and it's okay if you don't want to go back." Long fingers touched a curl of her hair, sliding up to one cheekbone with his thumb, as he felt a falling wetness there, formed tears in her eyes sliding freely down her cheeks, though she said nothing. "There's no one here inside this tent but you and me, and you can be scared, because _I_ understand."

He wasn't sure what she would do, but when Gwyneth let herself collapse into him, he wrapped his arms around her shoulders as if there was never a question of it. Even as she held onto his shirt, tears dampening the fabric, sobbing into it, he remained there, doing nothing more than resting his chin on her head.

"I'm too afraid to see Highever again, but I'm also afraid not to, and if . . . if Fergus asks me I have to go. I _have_ to!" She cried, comforted by the warmth of Alistair's chest, even if she was embarrassed about getting so upset over what she imagined was a silly fear, but he was true to his words, and he didn't judge her. The freedom in that liberated her tongue enough to speak out loud what Gwyneth hadn't since the last night she'd seen Castle Cousland. "But . . . but what if there are ghosts there that want me to join them? That want me to pay for escaping, when so few did?"

"Then they'll have to fight the _both _of us, and against the Heroes of the Blight, I don't think any spirit stands a chance." He smiled into her hair, and she laughed through her tears.

"You're ridiculous." She sniffled, wiping at her face and pulling back to find him grinning at her.

"Maybe, but you're smiling, so I can't be all that bad."

* * *

Fergus had a finely drawn map lain out completely over the driver's seat of one of the wagons, running a ringed finger along a dark brown line that represented the Midden's Road they were currently camped off of. The white sigil of crossing laurel sprigs was prominent on his golden signet ring, catching the light to bounce it off the ivory colored wagon canopy. "Here now, Gilmore, I want us to take the Midden's up to the North Road by Greenfell, make sure none of those Howe bastards escaped our notice and took refuge with the people there. There are a lot of women and children in Greenfell since the Blight took their men to war, and I don't like the idea of them suffering more than they should. We know what kind of men that rat Rendon employed, _now_ at least." The teyrn nearly growled his words, Roland Gilmore watching his liege lord warily.

"As you say, Your Grace, and then from there, are you wanting to follow the Coast Road up to Laurel Faireway, and then back to Highever from there? They might have fixed the bridge over Deits by now, milord." Ser Gilmore offered, swatting at a pesky black fly while he followed the map's lines, indicating the coastal mining town of Deits with his index finger.

"No . . . I think we'd better avoid the higher road and just go right through Deits itself, though I do hate the smell of that damn copper they mine. Stinks awful when it's smelted down." He wrinkled his nose, his knight captain nodding in agreement. "If we have the king's caravan with us, I don't want to have to double back with these lumbering wagons, especially if it rains again and the road is nothing but mud."

"Wise idea, that, milord. Do you think the king will indeed wish to come with us? I heard his knights saying their party was headed on to Amaranthine." Gilmore sighed in relief when his fly assailant took its insect interests elsewhere.

Fergus narrowed his eyes across the camp, lowering his voice as he saw his sister and her husband making their way towards them. "What the king wishes, I'm certain I don't know, but I _do_ think it's time my sister came back home . . . and it's not as if the detour takes them all that far out of their way."

"Of course, Your Grace." Ser Gilmore knew his lord well enough to keep his mouth shut after that, the signs of a foul temper building behind the teyrn's eerie silver eyes was more than evident. He bowed to the king and queen as they approached, smiling into the morning sun. "Good day, Your Majesties."

"Ser Gilmore." Gwyneth nodded her head, Alistair only smiling in return as the ginger haired knight left them with the teyrn. "And good morning to _you_, brother. We're just getting up, and here _you_ are, completely dressed, maps all out, and raring to go." She smirked, leaving the king's side to stand next to Fergus, leaning up to kiss his cheek. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you are trying to show me up."

He rolled his eyes, favoring her with a small peck on the tip of her nose. "There's no chance of that, Gwyny-Gwyn, with _you_ all freshened up and walking about, I'm fair certain you are the gem of everyone in this whole camp. Wouldn't you say that my sister is the loveliest sight on a morning such as this?" Fergus goaded the king, hoping to elicit some discomfort, so he could better judge the half common sovereign's feelings towards his only sibling. He didn't like at all not knowing what was going on.

Alistair only smiled at her. "None lovelier."

Gwyneth cleared her throat. "Well, yes, now that I've been all properly appreciated, what is this you have here?"

"I'm planning to go through Greenfell, collect any stragglers from Howe's rabble that might have hidden there. We passed by it too quickly in our pursuit of the ones tracked to this camp." Fergus rubbed his sister's hand where it lay curled against the corner of the map. "I will see all of them brought to justice for what they did."

The queen smiled sadly at that, but leaned into her brother, forehead pressed against the soft leather of his left pauldron.

Alistair's back stiffened, though he couldn't pinpoint why he felt so irritated by the ease they displayed with each other. "By _justice_, I assume you mean you're going to _kill_ them?"

Fergus glared hotly, fingers clenching into fists against the map. "What other justice is there, _Your Majesty_? For what crime, such as they committed, they deserve nothing less than to be slaughtered like the _animals_ they are. Did _you_ not in fact share this line of thought, when Loghain Mac Tir was on his knees at the Landsmeet, his neck waiting for your sword?"

Gwyneth's eyes went wide and scolding. "Fergus!"

"No, Gwyn let him speak his peace." Alistair's voice was even, but his face was anything but, brown eyes darkening to almost black. "After all, a good king listens to his subjects."

"A _good king_? Is _that_ what you are? Is that why they say it was my _sister_ who was the Warden Commander, and you, just a _follower_? Or perhaps you prefer to chase a woman's skirt to glory, so you could be free to cavort with your Orlesian slattern!" He snarled, the map and his aforementioned sister's presence all but forgotten, Fergus' earlier displeasure rising up again and lending fuel to his ire.

Alistair's nostrils flared, body taut like a bowstring. "Leliana was _not _a _slattern_, she was a beautiful, kind, loving woman and don't you refer to her like that! You have no right!"

"Leliana? So the _whore_ has a name, and you dare to speak it here, out loud, in front of your _wife_, my _sister_, whose honor you have _never_ considered!" The teyrn's face was a reddening tapestry of anger, met in every way by the king's own enraged expression. "If you weren't the king, I'd run you through for how you have mishandled her!"

"No! Not in public!" Gwyneth was frantic, watching as both Fergus and Alistair's men looked on with uncomfortable interest, at the fight brewing in their presence. She tried to get between them, but she wasn't nearly large enough to overpower them both.

"What's stopping you? Or is it that you are too cowardly?" The king sneered, an expression he'd always loathed on others, and never thought he'd wear on his own face, but his anger got the better of him. "After all, I didn't see hide or hair of you until the sister you _say_ you care about was named as Princess in Waiting. Very convenient, to be gone for the _whole_ bloody Blight!"

"I nearly _died_, defending my land, and my family! Which is more than I can say for you! Coward? You would know all about that, wouldn't you? Hiding from your responsibilities, because the other Wardens died, and handing them all to a girl whose family had just been slaughtered, a girl who barely knew a thing about fighting! All so you could do as you like while you placed Gwyneth in mortal harm, every single day that you refused to take your responsibilities as a man, but I should expect nothing more from a king born of _common clay_!" Fergus knew only what Gwyneth had told him, and the rest had been rumors, something he rarely took stock in, but nothing would keep him from defending his sister, because the king was right about one thing . . . he _hadn't_ been there, and he should have been.

"Maker! No, please! Don't do this!" Gwyneth was tugging fruitlessly at her brother's arm, trying to pull him away, and she screamed when Alistair went to lunge at him, Fergus ducking to grab the king by the shoulders and slamming him into the wagon.

Gwyneth's screams became shrieks when Alistair turned his face back, bright red blood running from his nose. He touched it, wincing in pain, before ramming his shoulders into the teyrn, sending Fergus to the ground. Fergus' family blade slipped from its unsecured sheath, and Alistair picked it up, pressing the blade close the other man's neck.

"Please stop! _Please_! Dear Maker, _please _. . . please _don't_ . . . _please stop_!" Gwyneth cried, over and over, her voice sounding as desperate as Alistair could ever recall hearing it. She put her arms over Fergus, kneeling in the dirt to look up at her husband, and her eyes caught his, the anger bleeding out of him as he dropped the blade harmlessly on the ground, backing away as if horrified with himself.

Ser Gilmore stood beside Ser William, the queen's hound having returned from his hunt with the knights to go to his mistress' side, even as the two knight captains didn't know what to do. Looking to both the king and the teyrn. "Sire?" and "Your Grace?" met with no answer. Ser Gilmore was charged with protecting Teyrn Fergus, Ser William was charged with protecting King Alistair, but in this instance neither were sure of how to act, both confused about the situation, and embarrassed for everyone involved.

Fergus got up on his knees, unsteadily as he wiped blood from his lip, unsure of how it was split open. He looked around him in slowly dawning horror, feeling wretched for his horrid display of temper, even if he felt Alistair deserved it, he would never want to humiliate his sister. Her face was full of embarrassment and a melancholy he couldn't bear to have been the cause of. "Gwyn, I . . ." He stuttered out, catching his breath, looking over Gwyneth's head to find the king, the man's head hung low, palm catching droplets of blood.

"Your Grace?" Gilmore tried again, a hand at his lord's elbow to steady him. The knight's other hand was at the hilt of his sword, in reaction to his duties to the Teyrn, but he dared not do anything.

Fergus shook his head. "No, no Ser Gilmore, there'll be no punishment or justice here, because there was no crime. This was a personal matter, and the king is in every right to maintain his stance." The teyrn's voice dropped another register, the barest hint of a threat still there as he glared at the king. "As am I."

"But, My Grace, your face, it's . . ."

"No, Ser Gilmore. I'll tend to it myself. I wish nothing more than privacy and forgiveness."

He looked down at Gwyneth, hoping for a nod, but she only stared at the ground, one hand lain across Noble's head, sniffling. The elder Cousland winced at her silence, and left, ordering his men to disperse and continue preparations for travel.

Ser William offered the queen his hand, voice sympathetic. "Majesty, are _you_ alright?"

"Worry about the king, fetch Ser Boughton, he has some skill with minor field medicine." Gwyneth was impressed with herself that she sounded so calm, looking over to Alistair, though he was eerily quiet. "If His Majesty has no wish for punishment . . ."

The king shook his head, and William bowed to him. "Very good then, we'll see to making our own preparations and I'll have Boughton collect his field kit straight away."

Gwyneth watched the First Knight go, Noble whining at her side. "It's alright, baby, you go on and take your hunting prizes to the caravan master so he can have them gutted and stowed away." He whined again and she glowered at him. "Do as I say now, Noble. Go!" She felt badly for the way he hunkered down, almost slinking away after he'd been yelled at, but he seemed to know what she'd commanded, leaving her with Alistair.

She took a deep breath, unable to even falsify a single note in her voice or expression on her face. Gwyneth was utterly and publicly humiliated and had no idea what could possibly make that better, and to make matters worse, she knew that by law her brother could be severely punished for striking at the king as he had, and there was no shortage of witnesses.

"Are you . . . are you going to seek retribution from my brother?" She tentatively asked, hating the sound of her own voice. She had never in her life, sounded so cowed under.

Alistair's voice was almost a croak, and he still didn't look at her. "No. No I don't think that'd be fair. We _both_ acted poorly, I can give him the same courtesy he gave to me, and keep it personal." He touched his nose again, seething through his teeth.

"Is it broken?" Her quiet voice surprised him, and he finally looked at her, to see the disappointment on her face. It stung more than he thought it should, because she'd certainly been disappointed before, but things were different now. Alistair knew what it was like to have Gwyneth's approval, and the lack of it wasn't a pleasant comparison.

"No, I don't think so, just sore." He wanted to reassure her, as he'd done that morning, warmed by how open she'd been with him, that'd she finally let him in, and now . . . "Gwyn, Gwyn I'm sorry. I didn't . . ."

She took a deep breath and he paused, thinking she was going to speak. "I know you're sorry, I know Fergus is sorry, even if he didn't say it, and . . . so am I." Gwyneth looked out to the camp, watching the men work as they tried not to glance over at the king and queen. "But I can't think about that right now. Just . . . tilt your head back, it'll keep the blood from dripping so much. Wynne taught me that." A wistful smile found her face, the only one she suspected she'd have for the rest of the day.

"I told you everything would be alright this morning, and then this. You must not think very highly of me." Alistair knew he sounded as wretched as he felt.

Gwyneth turned away from him, her voice low. "I don't know _what_ I think, Alistair, I'm too stunned. I just know that I have to talk with my brother, and then I'll come back. After that, I'd like it if we could travel to Greenfell with them . . . and Highever after that. I know it'll take us farther from Amaranthine . . ." She let the words draw out, waiting for Alistair's nod.

"Of course, of course we can. Are you sure?" He watched her carefully.

Her short laugh was brittle and humorless. "No, I'm not, but what happened just now, was because two people let worries and anger build up inside them, and I've been letting Highever's shadow darken _my_ insides for eight months. It's time to face my demons, _some_ of them, anyway." She gnawed at her lip, an uncomfortable pit in her stomach. "For what it's worth, I . . . I'm sorry for what my brother said about Leliana. I know that sometimes I act like I didn't much care for her, but it's . . . I never thought that she was your, well . . . that you two were _inappropriate_. I'm sorry that she's not here for you."

She was moving away from him when he called out. "Nothing's turned out like I thought it would, but I'm _not_ sorry." His eyes found hers, the surprise in them darkening the silver into grey. "I miss her, _every_ day, and I still wish sometimes that things were different, but . . . _you_ are the queen this country needs, and if I hadn't married you, that might not have happened. I'm glad to give Ferelden that chance, because it deserves to have you seeing to its interests." His voice caught, a little shy over the complications of his feelings in that regard. "Whatever your brother says, don't _ever_ believe that I don't think about your honor, or your value."

Gwyneth didn't know what to say to that, feeling uncomfortably touched by his words, so she was going to leave it at that, only at the last minute walking back to plant a small kiss on the bridge of his sore nose. "I belong here, but so do _you_. Things may not have turned out as _I _expected either, but in the end . . ." Her voice was so quiet then that Alistair almost couldn't hear her. "In the end I still miss Cailan, but I think . . . " It was difficult to say, but she knew Alistair was waiting on her. "The right man is on the throne."

"Does that mean you forgive me?" He barely dared to hope for that, Gwyneth wasn't the most forgiving person he knew of, but he hoped anyway.

"In that, you and Fergus seem to want the same thing. Right now . . . I'm too embarrassed to forgive either of you . . . but I don't hate you for it, anymore than I hate him. He's my brother, I'll never hate him, but you're my husband, and that's no small thing either." She may not have offered forgiveness, but she did give him a brief smile, before going after her brother, the teyrn having made for the privacy of the small copse of trees near the camp.

Alistair sighed and watched her go, thinking that his nose hurt, Fergus Cousland was an ass, he was as embarrassed as Gwyneth, and that he'd come quite far in less than one year, and in two months, a lot closer to Gwyneth herself. Which was often an experience in frustration, bewilderment and anger . . . and sometimes it was fairly pleasant, all matters considered. Above all those things, though he'd never admit it to anyone, he also thought that if Cailan really _was_ going to marry Empress Celene instead, as Gwyneth seemed to believe, than his late half brother was a blind idiot.


	52. Chapter 52: Truth of the Matter

**Disclaimer:** _"Dragon Age: Origins" and all its expansions and additional content is the property of Bioware and EA Games. Large portions of written content within the game, as well as Dragon's Age: The Stolen Throne, and Dragon's Age: Calling, are the creation of David Gaider. Original scenarios and characters are used under the creative license of the writer, ItalianEmpress1985. No profit is being made and the following story is for entertainment purposes only._

**Words From The Author: **_Not much to say here, in trying not to spoil you. Only that there are some lovely ladies introduced in this chapter that are my own creation, nothing in Dragon Age canon, however, it would be fair to say they are based off of a real world myth/legend that I've always been fond of. With my own Thedas take, of course. ;)_

_I wrote another whole two sections after the end of this chapter, but in trying to preserve a decent (and hopefully not overwhelming) chapter length throughout the story, they were put into the following chapter. Which, in looking at the content of this update versus the one after it, maybe those sections fit better later anyway._

_I hope everyone had a nice St. Valentine's, and if not, go and treat yourselves. You deserve it._

_Thank you for stopping in. Watch out for low flying dragons!_

* * *

_**Chapter Fifty Two:**_

_**Truth of the Matter**_

* * *

_**June 16'th, 9:31, Dragon Age**_

**T**he full moon overhead lit on the thatched roofs of Greenfell, the small farming community bedding down for the night. A slow crawling mist, that came from the scattered moor ponds, sat around the bottoms of wide willows and broad fence posts, as if cradling itself along with the residents who slept nearby.

One of the few people still up, Joseph Hewitt, leaned against the handle of his hoe, tucking it against the side of a small watershed. He took a deep breath of damp air, smiling as his eyes closed. Blight or no Blight, this was looking to be a decent summer season. Some of the others had left, afraid of the tales of darkspawn still roaming about, but he wouldn't jump at shadows, and besides, King Alistair had sent out a countrywide notice that new Grey Wardens were being brought in from Orlais to clear the lands of what little threat remained. 'Our days of fright have ended, embrace the new age with Your Crown, and let us rebuild!' The big bold black lettering had read, posted outside the ale house not just one month ago, an image of the king himself, smiling above it. Joseph thought he looked suspiciously like the same images of the late King Cailan, only changed just a bit. _Damn lazy artists in the capital! _

Cities bred sloth like rats and he was glad to be out here, stuffed between the northern moorlands and the southern coastlands. Greenfell was un-extraordinary, simple, and that's the way he liked it.

"Joseph?" His wife called out, an unwashed apron slung over one forearm, the other raised to place two fingers into her mouth, moving them to whistle sharply. She chuckled when her husband jumped, nearly tumbling over. "Did anyone tell you that you're far too jumpy for a Coastlander?"

"And did anyone tell _you _not to sneak up on a man when he's thinking?" He glared back, but his mouth curled impishly in the corner.

"Bah! Better I did then, last time you were set to 'thinking' you had me try to grow an orange tree in the back garden." She tutted at him, stepping delicately off the one step from the kitchen door to the yard. "Not the right climate for that, and we wasted good coin on that spindly tree, all on the word of some swindler out of Highever. You know the teyrn was never any good at keeping their kind from coming ashore."

"Man can't know everything, not me _or_ the teyrn, Maker rest his soul." Joseph dipped his head in respect, his wife doing the same.

"Let us hope then, that his son does a measure better. Certainly can't do worse."

"Now, Liza, can't be talking like that. Not with a Cousland on the _throne_ too."

"I could give a fig. What has her 'highness' ever done for us? She was a spoiled brat before, and I doubt it's gotten better. You remember when the teyrna brought her through here, wanting to buy some fresh strawberries last summer, yes? Not a 'thank you' to any of us, and then getting upset that we didn't have any lilac powder at the general store. Pfah! Lilacs, in high summer? Now she's got a fancy crown, and enough damn lilac powder that she could puff up that growling dog of hers, I'll bet, if the beast survived the Blight." Liza rolled her eyes at her husband.

His wife was from Gwaren, used to the rule of a man a bit less high toned than the nobility of northern Ferelden, Joseph knew that when he married her, hoping her southern attitude would have worn off over time. It hadn't. Though, with the Maker's blessing, she kept most of her opinions to herself. "Don't start on with that again, I'm not for hearing it, and don't think to be telling our boys any of that either. Nobility, they aren't like us Liza, and we can't expect them to be. We just take care of _our _lives, and trust in them, and the Maker, to take care of the bigger things."

She waved him off with her apron, shaking her head, even as she walked over to kiss his cheek. "I forget what a loyalist you are. Coastland born is Cousland bred . . . isn't that what you always tell me?" He nodded and she rubbed his cheek, scoffing. "Well, you go on and believe in your Couslands, I'll stick to the Maker, and since He isn't so fond of answering me, I'll take His silence as a sign to trust in myself more than any stuffy aristocrat. Saying that, I'm going to put that jam down in the root cellar, keep it cool. Missus Lowth says her husband's swollen knuckles have taken to hurting, and that usually means a storm is moving in. Damn northern storms in summer means hot weather, and I'm not about to let all that jam bubble up in the heat, doesn't taste right after that."

Joseph wrapped a strong arm around his wife's waist, leaning down to kiss her as he shooed her off. "Go on then, I'll be there in just a bit. Want to make sure that new gate we put up is staying latched. Found one of the lambs way down the road a couple of days ago. Haven't seen any wolves, but I'm not taking chances."

She smiled before her form was lost behind the closed door.

He cracked his neck, sighing into it as he slung his vest over one shoulder, footfalls bringing up dust down the slim road leading up to their farm. Joseph narrowed his eyes at a rectangle of light coming from his boys' room. He walked to the window, rapping on it as his youngest, Harold, bobbed his head into view. His small fingers worked at the simple latch, pushing the one pane open.

"Son, you know your mother'll tan your hide to find you still up." He cautioned.

The lad only peered around him, fretting at his lower lip, a habit that at ten years old, he hadn't quite dropped. "Ain't my fault Papa, George said he'd back to read me the story of the Blight, got a new book from the market he said. But he ain't come back yet."

Joseph hissed in frustration, rubbing a broad thumb against his brow. George had just turned sixteen not even a week ago, and since then, had been going on about the milky faced Norden girl. Joseph was friends with the girl's father, and it was a small village besides, would've been hard to keep that kind of thing quiet anyway. There was no doubt he'd gone off on some fool 'romantic' endeavor, even knowing he couldn't marry until his parents were agreed.

"Listen, son, when your brother gets back, I'll _think_ about letting him wake you up and tell you the story then. If he isn't back in an hour, I'll have to go fetch him myself, but until then, you get your little butt into bed. Far too late for you to still be up. There'll be enough times for you to be waiting into the night when you have children of your own, believe me."

Harold made a wretched face at that, and his father laughed, as the boy shut the window. Joseph stayed until the lantern had been blown out, shaking his head at his two boys and their penchant for being miscreants. He wondered if he'd been half as troublesome.

When he was sure the gate to the sheep pen was latched, he turned, lantern in his hand swinging about, to check the tree line near their farm, looking for a sign of George's own lantern, or maybe even one of the torches from the barn, if he'd seen fit to light it. Damn boy couldn't start a fire to save his life. Joseph huffed, shaking his head, nothing but a few lightning bugs off in the trees. If he wasn't back soon he'd have to make good on his promise to little Harold, and it was getting late besides. As a father, no matter how old his children got, he knew he'd never have a moment where he wasn't worried.

It was warm enough out, and Joseph settled down into one of the carved chairs on the back stoop, lantern left lit beside him, as he waited for his son.

Sometime later, after Joseph must have dozed off, a strange shriek woke him up. Bleary eyes couldn't quite make out everything under the moonlight and it took him a moment to realize where he was. The lantern had gone out, and the moon was already past half of the sky. It'd been at least four hours if not more, a chill settling into his bones as the warmth of the thin cloak he'd taken, wore off once he was awake. A creek from the door beside him, and he craned his neck, looking up at the frightened face of his wife, little Harold beside her and clutching his mother's nightgown.

"Joseph, what was that ungodly noise? I've never heard wolves sound like that . . . and where's George?" Her voice sounded demanding, but he knew she was scared.

"Papa, it sounded like a woman screaming." Harold offered, huddling closer to his mother.

The farmer looked out at his own fields, mist covering them like a shroud, lit up under the moon. There was nothing out there, the wind barely moving, and as Joseph listened closely, he couldn't even hear the crickets anymore, such an absolute quiet surrounding them, that he shivered at it. "Don't know, could've been a fox, sometimes the vixens can sound like women." His eyes peered closer at the tree line, looking for anything. "You sure George didn't come back already?"

"Would I be asking if he had?" Liza glared, finally picking Harold up, even though he was getting heavy, and snuggled him against her collarbone.

A horrid wail cut across the air, and Joseph felt the tiny hairs on his body prickle with goose bumps, his spine twitching at the awful noise. _That was no fox_.

"Dear Maker!" Liza moaned, Harold shaking as she held him.

"I'll . . . I'll go look for George. He should've been back by now." He got up, fear making his limbs feel stiff, but Joseph wouldn't let it show in front of his family. Liza gripped his arm.

"Please, please don't leave us Joseph!"

"Don't be stupid, Liza, I need to go find our son." He snarled back.

"Papa, don't, I'm scared!" Harold gripped him from his high vantage point on his mother's hip.

Joseph was gentle removing his son's fingers from his arm, patting his head. "Nothing to be scared of, just some animal probably. I'll be back soon enough, never you worry, and I'll have George with me, and everything will be fine."

"You promise?" Small eyes were wide on the boy's father.

Joseph smiled. "I promise." To his wife, he was more stern. "You take him in the house, lock the door until I come back with George."

She nodded, trying to smile for her youngest son's sake, watching as her husband took the flint rocks out of his pocket and relit the lantern. She stood on the stoop until Joseph had gotten as far as the sheep's pen, the animals eerily quiet and huddled nearly on top of each other in fright, but for a few frightened bleets.

He looked back at her, motioning her into the house and she went, locking the door as Harold left her side to watch from the window. "Come away now, sweetheart. Papa will be back soon." It was a shame that she didn't believe it.

Liza had traveled all the way from Gwaren, for an arranged marriage to a beet farmer and shepherd both of all things, never suspecting she'd love the stubborn bastard, but love was a curious thing, and right then, she almost wished she didn't. Then maybe she wouldn't be so afraid, but her other son was out there too, and as a mother, the constant fretting came as naturally as the love. So she stayed at the window, even as Harold went back to his room, probably to hide under the covers, and waited dutifully for her husband's return, heartbeat never slowing.

A thin scratching at the back door drew her attention, spine stiffening and she nearly screamed. A sigh and a short smile, thinking it must have been George come back. "You scared the life out of me! Here, come inside before . . ." Her voice cut off when she opened the door.

Harold heard his mother's words, but didn't quite dare to get up from the safety of his blankets, curled up on his bed and holding a stuffed bear against his chest. It'd been a long time since he'd wanted it, and if anyone asked, he'd tell them he was too old to take toys to bed with him, but he wanted it then. Laying in the dark, and waiting for his father to come back.

Despite the fear, he tried to tell himself that it would be alright, his father had promised him. Then, his mother screamed. He knew it was her, he always knew her voice, and his eyes opened wide, dragging the sheet from over his head, down to his chin, turning to peer into the darkness of his room.

"Mama?" He called out softly, but there was no answer, too afraid to say anything louder. Another scream, this one unearthly and loud enough that his teeth felt like they were rattling inside his mouth. Too scared to move, he huddled there for a while longer. _Brave men looked after their women_. That's what George said, and mama was a woman. Harold knew these things, and even afraid, he couldn't lay there and listen to his mother screaming. He bit his lip, worrying it between his teeth, and slowly crawled out of bed, moving quietly to the door.

It came open with a creak, and he winced at the noise, peering through the crack to see his mother on the kitchen floor, dark liquid pooled around her as she tried to crawl for the open back door. Without thinking, he went to run towards her, feet sleeping in cool wetness as the boy fell into the table. "Mama!" He cried out, trying to stand again, only to look at the thing that was in his kitchen.

A horribly pale face turned towards him, the figure dressed in rags just as bleached of color. Long scraggly hair, white as the moon, swung about like a dingy curtain as the thing gazed at him. It _looked_ like a woman, but beneath the nose, her face was gone, blackened away to leave only unnaturally grey teeth. Black fluid leaked from the corners of pupil-less white eyes, running over emaciated cheeks as she blinked. When it spoke at him, a voice sounding like her throat was full of rocks, the same fluid dripped from her open maw and onto the floor.

"Boy . . . a _little_ . . . boy. I had a boy inside . . . once, he burned a hole within me." It hissed, clutching at its rag covered abdomen for a moment.

A trail of urine went down Harold's leg, wetting his sleeping trousers as he stood still in horror, body shaking. It reached out for him, almost gently, fingers ending in long unkempt nails.

"Such a pretty . . . little . . . child. Still . . . so _pure_. My Lord needs your . . . purity . . . little one." It paused, breath wheezing between words as if it was having trouble getting air.

"Run, Harold! Run and hide! Run!" Liza screamed at her son, blood bubbling out of her mouth as she tried to hold her body together, the cracks along her skin widening with every movement.

As the creature turned to snarl at the interruption, Harold found his feet, running past his dying mother. The thing hissed in frustration, opening its awful mouth to let loose a wail, as if echoing off the stones of the Black City. The pitch of it shattered the glass in the windows, and Liza's body was broken apart by the unholy sound.

Harold slipped in the wet grass, never stopping, even as he heard the noise behind him, tears blurring his vision, mist curling around his calves. He fled into that misty darkness, screaming for help.

* * *

_**June 17'th, 9:31, Dragon Age**_

Gwyneth found her brother saddling up his horse, a fine Antivan mount that looked suspiciously like the horse he'd had before, a gift from their father for his twenty first birthday. She cleared her throat, gesturing at the horse. "That's not Ariss, surely."

Fergus smiled for a moment, patting the sleek black neck of his mount. "Aye, one and the same. Even Howe's lickspittles could tell fine breeding stock when they saw one. The shit stain they appointed 'captain' was using him of course, but I claimed him back, after I took the man's head."

"I take it you put it on a spike?" She raised a brow, hands folding demurely in front of her, as if the topic was just as commonplace as anything.

"No." Fergus shrugged, tugging at the girth on his saddle. "I thought about it of course, but it seemed too much like something Meghren the Mad would've done, and . . . Father would not have cared for that similarity. So I flung it off Old Man's Rock, let the fish feast on it."

Gwyneth grinned in macabre humor. "That's disgusting, but . . . I'm glad."

"Are you?" He rounded on her, silver eyes narrowing. "I'd have thought you would side with your _husband_. Maker forbid the thought of violence against ones enemies." Fergus sneered, biting his tongue to keep from saying more.

"I'll never be upset to see criminals get their comeuppance, and I would love to see every single man that stormed our home, hung from a gibbet until black flies filled his eye sockets." Her lip curled, eyes darkening along with her thoughts. "Alistair isn't a milksop either, afraid of getting his hands dirty. He stood his ground with the Bannorn, and ordered Zacharius Loren to shoot his brother with a crossbow, after he himself was shot by one. I'd hardly call that an aversion to 'violence against ones enemies' Would you?"

"He certainly was upset enough about killing any of Howe's leftovers." Fergus knew he sounded petulant, but he didn't care.

Gwyneth snorted. "Pish posh. I think it was a fight you were both twitching to get into, though I can't imagine the reasoning behind such a _public_ display." Her arms crossed over her chest, one brow raised, managing to look both curious and scolding.

Fergus laughed at that image, unable to help the humor of seeing his little sister holding herself in a posture he'd more often associated with their mother. That only earned a glare from her, and he collected himself. "Ah, forgive me, but you look so much like Mother when you do that, I half expect to hear you yelling at Father next. '_You_ handle this, Bryce, he's _your_ son!' I'll not be forgetting those moments any time soon. Lord but that woman could yell."

Gwyneth's mouth curled in the corner, remembering the same things. "Yes, whenever one of us was naughty, somehow we miraculously _only_ became our _father's_ children." The moment of shared mirth was gone soon enough when she remembered why she had come to speak with him. "Though I think you must've inherited Father's temper, bursting to flame like you did just now."

His shoulder's sagged, refusing to meet his sister's gaze. "If you want to scold me, you may as well save your breath. I was there, I know what happened."

"Then you know that you publicly humiliated me, and put not only myself, but both your own Knight Captain, and Alistair's First Knight, into the awkward position of not knowing whether to protect their teyrn or their king first."

"To Hell with them." He snarled, apologizing to Ariss when his anger made him yank the saddle strap a little too hard.

"Well that's a fine attitude! And I suppose 'to Hell' with _me_ as well?"

"That's right! Especially if you think to teach _me_ manners! _You_, my _little _sister, whose ass I had to take care of for more years than I wish to recall!" He growled, turning on her, as she backed away from his anger. "You may be the Queen of Ferelden, but do not forget that you are a woman, and I am man, and your senior besides. You have no business chastising me, when you have forgotten your own place!"

"My place?" Gwyneth scoffed. "How could I forget _that_, when my duties continually remind me? I'll not deny you were there, seeing to my honor, but I was just a teyrn's daughter then, and now I am married to the King of Ferelden, and that position requires me to keep the peace and my _own_ honor. If not always by law, then very much in practice. As a teyrn of this country, do you not feel such a loyalty, that the least you can do is hold your tongue, and express your anger when there are not so many about to witness it?"

His face was set into hard lines, lips pressed together tight enough that the color bled from them, head turned away from her. Gwyneth put her hand against his cheek, the stubble brushing her palm as she pressed her fingers to his jaw, delicately leading his face towards hers so she could press her forehead against his own, standing on her toes to reach him. He didn't fight her.

"Brother, my own Fergus, I would never choose anyone above _you_, surely you know that, not my husband, not _anyone_, but I beg you not to put me in the position where I must make such a decision." Her voice was low, purposely soothing, and she smiled into her brother's chest as he wrapped his arms around her, stroking her hair as he would when they were younger and she'd become frightened by the hooting of barn owls or other childish nonsense.

"I will speak to my men . . . and the king." Fergus ground out, placing a cheek against the top of his sister's head, whispering as she did. "I'll apologize for my temper, if that will make you feel better."

"It would."

"Then I shall endeavor to do just that, and though I cannot say I am yet pleased with your match, I will . . . attempt to see its benefits." He smirked. "Ah, you know I used to feel protective that Cailan would've shown interest in you, now I wish he had indeed married you. At least then it would be more agreeable."

"No."

Her denial shocked him, and he pushed her back to look at her face. "No?"

"He would not have married me." She looked away, moving to hug her brother, needing his comfort in that moment.

"Come now, I think we are both past denying that he held a fancy for you. If Father hadn't proven your virtue, I'm sure most of the country would've believed that to be so." He paused, when she didn't react to his teasing.

"I . . . I found a letter." She bit her lip, lowering her voice. "You cannot tell anyone!"

"_Your _secrets are _my _secrets, Gwyny-Gwyn."

She nodded at his reassurance. "It was from Empress Celene, and it . . . it hinted at a matrimonial contract between them."

"_What_? Surely not, he wouldn't have risked it, when the country had only just won back its freedom shortly before his own birth." Fergus knew Cailan had been a bit shortsighted, but it couldn't have been _that_ dire. "You must be mistaken. What was Cailan's reply?"

"I don't know."

"You don't _know_? Pfft! Than how can you be sure of anything?"

"I _saw _the letter Fergus, with my own eyes!" Gwyneth hissed, looking about them cautiously.

"I believe you, but Gwyn, you don't know what the reply was. How can you be certain he would've agreed?" He stroked one of her escaped curls, smiling down at her and hoping to relax his sister before her own temper got out of hand. That was something they shared.

"Couslands are not born _fools_! If she was that familiar with him already, I am well assured that she can't have been expecting a negative answer to such written flirtations. The woman seemed well versed in subtlety, but so am _I_." She snarled, trying to compose herself. "It hardly matters, Fergus, because I _didn't_ marry Cailan, and it is due to a marriage with his half brother, instead, that I have the position I wanted. Pride of place that should have belonged to the Couslands a long time ago. Always second to Calenhad's line, but _now_ we are _equals_. Things are as they should be and I'm not going to wish to regain the past, when another path may not have ended this way. Neither should you."

He knew it bothered her, no matter what she said, but Gwyneth was as stubborn as he was, if not more so. Cousland pride, and Davenport determination. It was a potent mix. "Perhaps not, but maybe it's time for you to walk old paths, and speak to old ghosts."

Gwyneth nodded against his chainmail, the cloth of the laurel-emblazoned cloak he wore tickling her forehead. "Yes, yes I think you're right."

"So you'll come to Highever with me then? Is your husband agreeable?" Fergus was impressed that he was able to mention Alistair without displeasure leaking into his voice.

"He is." She peered up at him. "I take it you are heading to Greenfell first? I overhead you with Ser Gilmore."

"You and your damn hawk ears." Fergus snorted. "Yes, Greenfell and then up through Deits."

"Ugh! I _hate_ that town! It has the most wretched stench!" Gwyneth grimaced, slapping Fergus playfully on the shoulder when he chuckled at her, but he nodded anyway.

"Best not to tell your subjects in Deits that, but I agree. Unfortunately, Howe's brigands burned down Laurel Bridge. I've had my men working on it, but I'm not sure how far they may have gotten with the reconstruction, and I don't want to be forced into a double trip if its not done. Not with the air smelling of rain as it has been." He sniffed for good measure, earning Gwyneth's smirk.

"Always that fool idea that you can smell the weather. It's no matter, I suppose I can tolerate it, as long as we don't spend the night. You promise me now." She pressed a finger into his chest, smiling when he took her hand and kissed her knuckles.

"Oh yes, as Her Majesty commands me." He didn't bow, not willing to let Gwyneth claim that much superiority. "In return, you'll not speak a word of this to the king. Having to apologize to him is bad enough, there's no reason to make him think he's won anything here."

Gwyneth rolled her eyes. "I'm sure he's already aware of that, since he apologized to me not long after your spat."

"A _spat_? Gwyn, we could've _killed_ each other." He glowered when she didn't deny it.

"Perhaps then, you should not have called his lady love a _whore_." Her eyes glinted, mouth held firm and accusatory.

If it had been possible, steam might have blown from Fergus' nostrils. "I was defending _you_! He was to be married to you, and made no secret that he was cavorting around with a peasant. Such news may have stemmed from rumor, but it's clear to me now, that they were very close to the truth of it. He still doesn't deny it, saying her name like that in front of everyone! In front of _you,_ as if you don't matter, as if his _common_ woman has more value than a _Cousland_! It's absurd and insulting! How else was I to react?"

"Fergus, _you_ were the one that mentioned it! Alistair wouldn't have said a thing if you hadn't brought Leliana's name into it." Her eyes rolled skyward. "Did you honestly think he wouldn't say something after that? He _loved_ her, Fergus, he _still_ loves her, and while I know such love isn't as important as duty, I know it is what he believes and there is nothing I can do to change that . . . and Leliana was no slattern. I didn't always like her, preaching on about the Maker as if He actually had a vested interest in how she styled her hair, but she was a goodly woman, foolishly so at times."

"Ah, now I see why your husband loves this woman so! They are both fools, a perfect match!" Fergus sneered. "I can't believe what I'm hearing! So now you would defend both him _and_ his mistress? What in the Hell has gotten into you? Romance is a sham, as you well know, so how is it that you can talk about your husband's 'lady love' with a straight face?" He shook his head, rubbing at his brow, trying to form his thoughts around the haze of anger and confusion in his mind. "He has every right to have a mistress, that's true, it'd be far too hypocritical of me to say otherwise. But for goodness sake, the man could try to exercise some damn discretion, for _your_ benefit, at least!"

She got quiet, letting Fergus' ire simmer down while he waited for her. "He _was_ discreet, but it would've been difficult to keep any rumors from cropping up, you know that from your _own_ marriage. Besides, in point of fact, Leliana was not his mistress, because he ended that relationship before we were married. I had not asked it of him, indeed, I was of every mind to accept it if he had kept her in Denerim, to ease the union from his side of it. Neither one of us entered this thing with any other fancies, apart from a duty to Ferelden. It wasn't like we were promised as children, and nay, not even betrothed until just before the Landsmeet, where my hand was given more to help secure victory against Loghain MacTir. Which worked."

Fergus' pride in his family won out at those words, and he barked a gruff admiration. "Of _course_ it worked! Loghain's father was a dirt farmer, ours was a fifth century blue blood."

Gwyneth knew it had been a bit more than just her heritage that granted her victory, but she smiled wistfully, nodding before she was back to the point. "Yes, but be that as it may, Alistair had my hand for little other reason than that. It wasn't planned before, and any loyalty he owed me, was that of a brother in arms, not a future husband. I was in no frame of mind, or position, to expect him to 'spare my honor' because until the Landsmeet, he had little effect on my personal stature. I may not always get along with him, and truth be told, there were many times I came close to hating him, especially at first. Blockhead that he was, but I can't begrudge him for falling in love with someone during a time that I hardly gave a damn about it."

"Hmph!" Fergus crossed his arms, unwilling to admit he was wrong, and unable to accept Gwyneth's excuses for her husband. The fact that she felt it necessary to make them at all was irritating. A Theirin should be able to speak for themselves, hold their own ground, and not send their woman to fight their battles for them. The rational part of Fergus' sharp mind told him it was unlikely that Alistair had any hand in Gwyneth's words just now. He had known his sister his whole life after all, and was more than aware that Gwyneth made up her own mind, and did so with the same stubborn nature possessed by unruly mules. Yet, for all that, he couldn't pretend that she had swayed his thoughts with her little speech. "And what explanation might you provide for the way he abandoned his own responsibility to take up the position as Warden Commander, and hand it over to you? Or are you going to tell me that didn't happen? You more than suggested it before, and I've heard similar rumors afterwards."

"Rumors? _Again_? And here I thought the grand Fergus Cousland was beyond the petty gossip of the common people." Her snotty retort couldn't hide the truth, but she wasn't above trying to avoid it with distraction.

"Normally, I am, but are they wrong, Gwyneth?" He prodded, eyes as sharp and stabbing as any pointed blade.

Gwyneth took a deep breath, and shook her head. "No, they aren't wrong." She fussed with the wedding band on her finger, dropping her gaze to it. "I can't make excuses for him, in that regard. It is what it is, it happened, and I did very well in a position of leadership, as it turned out. Things are . . . different, now, Fergus and he's gotten better."

For the country's sake, and his sister's, he certainly hoped so, but there was little to be said on that score. At least, very little that Fergus' pride would _let _him say, and so he shrugged, fixing her with that same ardent stare that always cracked her veneer of calm. "So certain of his quality, aren't you? I wonder, what would you have done if he _had_ killed me?"

"You shouldn't have to ask, Fergus, you already know the answer. He'd have to kill _me_ first, and that'll never happen." His question made her uncomfortable, and knowing him, that was probably his intention. Always wanting the last word, but she wouldn't let him _that_ time. "Besides, you're Fergus Cousland, I pity the poor sod that tries to kill _you_."

"The darkspawn made a good effort, I must say, but you're right. I'm here aren't I? And so are _you_, little pup." Anger was something he held onto for a good long while, and in the past it had served him well, tinder for the fire of his vengeance, but not against Gwyneth, never against _her_. His lips turned up, wry and humorous, letting their disagreement burn away to nothing but cinders. "I'm still having a hard time imagining you with your short swords. It was worth a good laugh to watch you practice with them, rump always ending up in the dirt, and cursing your way back to the castle for a hot bath, complaining about 'nonsensical sword craft'" He grinned, taking her wrists when she made to slap him, looking offended.

"Well, I must have learned something, or I'd be dead, wouldn't I? Not all the protection in the world could have saved me _every_ time I was in danger during the Blight. Besides, I killed two of Howe's men, and the proof of that you have on your _own_, having seen the bodies yourself. And I'll have you know I didn't fall onto the dirt even _once_." She stuck her chin out, defiant and proud.

But Fergus saw something in her face, the same distance he had noticed before, but he nodded. "So you did." When she made to walk away, he grabbed her again. "Gwyn . . . one of those bodies was in the wagon you were sleeping in, I saw your short swords still in there. No mistaking that serpent shape of theirs."

"So what of it?" She shrugged, feeling an uncomfortable pit in her stomach.

"So . . . what was that man doing in the wagon where you had enough opportunity to run him through? He was on his belly when we found him, and from the angle of his wound, you weren't behind him, so how did you get the upper hand?" Fergus kept his voice low, trying to sound tender, already afraid that he knew the answer.

"I . . ." She opened her mouth, closing it again sharply, before glaring at her brother. "Why does it matter? _He's_ dead and _I'm_ not."

"Gwyn . . . that's not an answer."

"He was . . . He was going to rape me, alright?" She hissed, eyes narrowing to keep from crying, turning away to leave her bother in an angry surge.

"It's not bloody alright! I should've been there! I should've . . ." He shouted after her, lowering his voice when he recalled that while they had _some _solitude, they were not entirely out of earshot. "I should've protected you!"

"Well you didn't!" She snarled, wincing when she saw that her words had hurt him. "Fergus, I don't mean that, I'm just . . ." Gwyneth took a deep breath. "I pretended that I'd be . . . agreeable to rutting with that man, long enough that he got excited and wasn't so aware of what _I _was doing. Then I ran one of my swords through his neck. He _didn't_ rape me, he barely even touched me." Her voice was reaching a pitch very close to screeching, and she had to force herself to whisper.

"Gwyn, I'm so sorry." Fergus curled his knuckles to touch her cheek, and she leaned into them, but no more than that.

"Don't be. I'm fine, and I've been through worse. There are things, beneath our feet that I can scarcely bring myself to talk about." Her mind offered a vision of a bloated beast, made to breed countless monstrosities. "Besides, it's not the first time, and at least on _this_ occasion I knew enough to take care of it on my own."

"_What_? What do you mean 'not the first time'?" Fergus would've shaken her, desperate to know, but she looked upset enough that he held himself back.

"That night, when Howe's men besieged the castle, I was sleeping. Not so different from last evening I suppose. I was still in my nightgown when Noble's howling woke me up, he was growling at the door, and when I opened it, there was . . . one of Howe's hirelings was there, with two others. I didn't even have time to react." Gwyneth took a deep breath, looking down at the ground. "The other two, left their _friend_ there to 'have his fun' Noble was growling, he _kept _growling. I guess they didn't think one dog was a threat. That man, he kicked him, I heard Noble whimpering, but then he was on me, pressing me back to the bed and I started screaming."

"Maker! He . . . this one was successful?" Fergus didn't want to know, but he had to, both confused and relieved when she shook her head. "Then, you killed that one as well?"

"No, I didn't."

"Then, I don't understand. How did you . . ." The teyrn began, only to be interrupted, watching his sister's face take form around a very dark smile. It was not the face of a victim, but rather the macabre glee worn on the face of a gargoyle.

"I was calling to Noble, and he got that son of a whore! He tore his throat open!" Her lips drew up higher, eyes bright and sharp. "There was blood matted into his coat later. I remember . . . I remember I had to clean it off him before I got to Ostagar." Her mind was far away, as if all of that had happened to a different Gwyneth Cousland, though she stood there in the same skin.

Fergus didn't know what to say, her smile making him proud and equally disturbed. "What happened to you?"

"The same thing that happened to _you_, Fergus. Our family was butchered, our home ransacked, and us left to either die or find our own way back to who we were." She ran a hand over her hair, feeling the small jeweled pins she scattered amongst her braid. _Pretty trinkets for a pretty girl_. That's what the vendor had said, and the part of Gwyneth that had never left Highever, had bought them without thinking twice about it. Her victorious smile fell short of happy, melancholy stealing it. "I don't know if I found that way just yet."

Her brother hugged her to his chest again, forgetting for a moment, about everyone else. "Me either, Gwyny-Gwyn. Me either." He smiled into her hair, feeling a bit smug, despite himself. She'd told him, though it certainly wasn't something that made him pleased, but she had trusted him, nonetheless and he very much doubted she'd told that half-peasant nearly as much. If there was ever a doubt that he still held his sister's heart, it was eased by her confession to him just now, and he couldn't help but be pleased by that. Let Alistair Theirin think himself the better man, if it so suited him to do so, because Fergus would apologize with a grin on his face, for in the end, _he_ was the victor.

* * *

"_He_ certainly seems to be in a better mood. I take it you had something to do with that?" Alistair jabbed a thumb behind him, where the teyrn had brought his horse up next to Ser Gilmore, the two talking amicably atop their mounts.

Gwyneth shrugged, but didn't turn her head, already knowing who he was talking about. "I've little control over his mood. I think you should count yourself lucky that he apologized and enjoy the fact that he isn't still angry." She looked at Alistair from beneath her lashes. "Are _you_ still angry?" Speaking in whispers made her feel nervous, when their present company was so close to them, her and Alistair taking the lead with only Ser William ahead of them, but she did it anyway.

"I guess not." That wasn't exactly the truth, but it's what Gwyn wanted to hear. Such was obvious when a small smile caught the corner of her mouth. If he wanted to speak his peace, Alistair would have, but he found himself more concerned with holding on to the tenuous 'peace treaty' he and Gwyneth were testing between each other. For his silent thoughts, however, the anger was still bubbling, not boiling over as it had been, but definitely there. Fergus' character made an impression far different from when Alistair first met him, and he felt angry over the reasoning, because he could think of nothing that caused it. Gwyneth said her brother had heard rumors about him, _but what kind of rumors would make the new teyrn act like that with such ferocity? _Maybe for now it was better to leave that questioned unanswered, and he _had_ apologized, so perhaps that bit of temper was over . . . though Alistair doubted it.

Instead of voicing any of _those_ thoughts, however, he avoided them, turning to admire the way the late afternoon sun caught the red-gold strands in Gwyneth's dark auburn curls. It was nothing he'd paid much mind to before, but just then he realized, that for all that his wife crowed on and on about her self-proclaimed beauty, it was probably her hair that was her nicest feature. She caught him looking, and he covered it with a jest.

"Though, to be honest, I _am_ getting hungry and it's making me feel like taking a bite out of someone." His face was all seriousness, glancing sidelong at Gwyneth. "Say, _you_ look like you have some meat on you." He snapped his teeth at her, enjoying her laughter as she reached her hand out as if to shoo him away.

"Must you be so silly?" She chided, only half meaning to.

Alistair stuck his head in the air, trying to be posh. "I'm told it's one of my finer traits."

"They were lying to make you feel better, then." She grinned, even more so as he wrinkled his nose.

"Hey, that's not very nice, you know! Picking on a poor man like me, beset by his hunger." He made a show of bemoaning his fate, even freeing one hand from the reins to press it against his heart. "Oh, the humanity!"

"Get off it! You're a wretched actor!" Gwyneth tried to sound serious, but through her giggling it was no good.

Ser Gilmore blinked, pausing in his conversation with Teyrn Cousland, to look at the royal couple ahead. Not even a day in passing, where he'd been severely worried about the outcome of the awful row between his own high lord and the king, and both sovereigns were able to flirt about as if nothing had happened.

Roland himself was a lesser lord of the Coastlands, the second son of Lord Roderick Gilmore of Dunharrow. The late Teyrn Bryce never offered to squire anyone who didn't have _some_ blue blood in their veins, believing that peasant blood led to a natural born desire to rebuff the rules of such a knightly station. Yet, even for that, the higher nobles always confused him, their behavior swinging so rapidly from one side to the other, it was little wonder they didn't give themselves whiplash.

"What's so funny up there?" Fergus called out, their antics drawing his attention.

Alistair was going to say something back at the teyrn interrupting his fun, when he caught a look at the warning glare Gwyneth was sending him, instead mumbling to himself as she responded instead.

"Nothing much, we're just getting hungry and it's making us silly. Tell me, does Greenfell still have good mutton at the ale house?" She called out, voice sharp enough to be heard, without shouting.

"Last time I passed through there, yes. Don't worry, we'll be there before dark and you can fill your belly proper." Fergus grinned to the whooping agreement from his men, some of Alistair's knights chiming in with an agreeable chorus of raised fists and 'huzzah's.

"See? You'll not be hungry for too much longer." Gwyneth drew her palfrey close enough to Alistair's horse that she could pat his knee, thinking nothing of the gesture until he took her hand, curling his fingers around it and smiling at her.

"Trying to keep me fat are you?" He grinned, but she never got a chance to respond.

A white blotch ran across the road in front of them, Ser William's mount whinnying and bucking back, the knight forced to keep himself on the saddle. "Oy! Company halt!" He called out, the rest of them stopping.

"What was that?" Alistair shouted.

"Don't know, Sire." William shook his head, climbing down to the ground once his horse had calmed.

Noble jumped from the wagon where he'd been resting, already running after the thing, and barking his head off. His chestnut body disappeared into the long grass, a short bleating noise following soon after, interspersed with Nobles excited barks.

"Oh, for goodness sake!" Gwyneth glowered, soon enough down on the road herself, dusting her traveling breeches down. "Noble! Get back here! Noble!" When he didn't answer, she went after him.

Fergus snorted in displeasure, griping under his breath. "Yes, certainly, let's all make a full stop and go running away into the shrubbery. It's not as if we've places to be." He turned his head to the knight captain. "Gilmore, go help Her Majesty won't you?" But he didn't have to, both Gwyneth and her fool mabari came back, the dog gently nipping at the hind quarters of a sheep. "All that fuss over nothing." Fergus rolled his eyes, seeing a red splatter on the white wool. "Did Noble bite him?" Now they'd have to pay the shepherd for the sheep. _What rot! _Though he supposed the king could claim it as his own, per his rights as liege lord.

Gwyneth's eyes snapped up at her brother, defensive. "No, he did _not_. This looks like _dried_ blood, it's all matted into the wool here." She smiled at her mabari. "Look at you, handsome sheep dog."

Noble growled, displeased at the new title.

Gwyneth only laughed. "No, no, I think we'll keep Royal Mabari of the Crown of Ferelden as your title, don't worry."

"Blood? Where'd it come from if it isn't injured?" Alistair raised a brow, getting down from his saddle. He winced as the slight shock of impact reverberated up his body, making his sore nose tingle with painful sensitivity. It hadn't been broken, and had no need to be bandaged once the bleeding had stopped, but it was still awfully tender, and he was sure by the next morning, it would bruise. A pair of narrowed eyes was sent briefly in Fergus Cousland's direction. To think that when he'd first met him, he thought he might like the teyrn better than Gwyneth.

"Who knows. We'll let the shepherd worry about that." Gwyneth motioned at Ser Boughton. "Ser, I believe you've some skill with animals." He'd said 'wild' animals before, but it was no matter to her. "See to it that the sheep is secured in the cargo wagon, put a tarp under it to avoid too much mess, and we'll return it to Greenfell. I'm sure that's best."

Fergus nodded at her, in agreement, and left Alistair with little choice but to agree as well. Even if a vengeful streak made him yearn to be difficult.

Once the sheep was secured and Noble was back sitting beside the wagon master, Gwyneth walked to her mount, readying to clamber atop it. Alistair's hands came around her waist as he went behind her, and she smiled at him, a bit dazed in her surprise. "Oh! Ahh . . . thank you, milord." A cheeky note added at the end when he hoisted her up. One of his broad palms reached up to pat her knee as she had done to his moments ago.

"Of course, milady." He dropped his voice just for her, pretending not to notice Teyrn Fergus watching them with a jaundiced eye. When he was back atop his own mount, a self-important smile stretched across his lips, nodding amicably back at the put out teyrn. Alistair had a feeling the man had wanted to show his own gallantry towards his sister, but the young king had beat him to it, and an unfamiliar smugness filled Alistair's chest with pride. _'Put _that_ in your pipe and smoke it, Fergus_!'

He turned his eyes away from the sour face of the elder Cousland, only to catch the younger one staring at him. There was something in those large irises that made his breath pause halfway up his throat, but he couldn't say what. Gwyneth had never eyed him like that and Alistair wasn't at all certain what it meant. It was inspecting, to be sure, which he was more than familiar with, but instead of looking disappointed or if she was trying to find the solution to a particularly difficult puzzle, she seemed . . . admiring.

"What is it?" He prompted, busying himself with smoothing down the small beard he was growing.

"Nothing, nothing at all." Gwyneth kept watching him, voice low and almost teasing, eyes bright under her long lashes. Her lips curled in a private thought, settling back into her saddle, relaxed with whatever determination she'd come to.

_She had to have been plotting something concerning him, that must have been the look_. Alistair reasoned, except usually her planning made him nervous, instead he felt strangely thrilled. Like he hadn't been since he'd been a boy, exploring a newfound lakeside cave, the thrill of adventuring anew and seeing something he'd never seen before. She smiled at him again, and that knot of excitement grew warm and weighted in his belly. He told himself it was hunger pangs.


	53. Chapter 53: When the Sun Goes Down

**Disclaimer:** _"Dragon Age: Origins" and all its expansions and additional content is the property of Bioware and EA Games. Large portions of written content within the game, as well as Dragon's Age: The Stolen Throne, and Dragon's Age: Calling, are the creation of David Gaider. Original scenarios and characters are used under the creative license of the writer, ItalianEmpress1985. No profit is being made and the following story is for entertainment purposes only._

**Words From The Author: **_I'd gotten some feedback from some readers I know personally, that the bond Fergus and Gwyneth have (specifically the touchy-feely stuff) felt a little incestuous. While they don't lust for each other physically, I definitely think their possessiveness of one another borders on creepy and inappropriate and is certainly capable of making people uncomfortable. So saying, any overly fond tones, for my part, are entirely intentional. Children born into noble families in that kind of environment, especially with children possessing as much narcissism as my Couslands, didn't always develop their relationships with one another in entirely healthy ways. With this particular portrayal of the Couslands, I used the warm fuzzies sparingly. Though there are times that I write the siblings as very much the kind of siblings most of us are familiar with. They're strange ducks, Fergus and Gwyneth, but still a brother and sister in the end . . . just a little too close for comfort. It does make me want to write Fergus' previous marriage from his wife's point of view though, having to see her husband more fond of his sister than her had to be off putting. Just like it is for Alistair now, I'm sure. I have a feeling that kind of thing happened a lot back in the day, but I'll have to save those musings for another time._

_In noting ages for the first section here, I realized that I had said prior, that Oren was five when he was murdered, which was October of 9:30, but in checking my own timeline, he was only closer to two and a half. Argh! I hate that, but nothing to do about it now, though the ages currently ARE correct in the story-canon. As for the boy himself, even at two I figure, from my own experience both AS a child and in raising children, that he'd still have a healthy vocabulary, though not always perfect, like saying 'sord' instead of 'sword' ;)_

_Thank you for stopping in. Watch out for low flying dragons!_

* * *

_**Chapter Fifty Three:**_

_**When the Sun Goes Down**_

* * *

_**July 11'th, 9:30, Dragon Age**_

_**O**__ren toddled across the long grass, hitching up his trousers in one chubby fist, the other reaching out for his father, walking ahead of him with his aunt. He huffed, an errant lock of dark red falling in front of his face. "Papa! Papa!" He had a healthy set of lungs, there was no doubt of that, and Fergus Cousland finally turned to see his son chasing after him._

_"Why you little miter! Didn't I tell you to stay with your mother? And here you are, escaping . . . again." The lord smiled, tousling his boy's hair, to pick him up and hold the lad against his side._

_"Your wife should be better at keeping her child under control. Maybe they don't teach them proper parenting in Antiva." Gwyneth sniffed, looking disinterested as she inspected her fingernails._

_"Gwyn . . . behave." Fergus cautioned. Pinching Oren's cheek lightly, he pressed the tip of his finger on the end of the boy's nose. "We'll just have to take you back, and if you're good, Papa will find some of those wild berries you like so much." He recalled fondly how Oren had smeared them all over his face the last time, Oriana almost in vapors when she thought it had been blood at first._

_Oren pouted, silver eyes not only the same color as his father, but just as severe. "No."_

_"No? You don't want any berries?"_

_"Wanna stay with you, Papa. Too big to sit with Mama."_

_Fergus barked in laughter at that, turning a humorous grin in his sister's direction. "You hearing this? Listen to him talk!"_

_"Mmm, hmm." Gwyneth murmured absently, rolling her eyes. "It's getting late, and you said you'd escort me down to the docks for the new shipment in from Tevinter. I want to be the first to see those fabrics before Lord Meckley's daughters go pawing at them."_

_"Yes, yes. Why are you always in such a damn hurry? Here, you hold him a moment while I make sure my coin purse is tied securely. Too many pickpockets in the square." The high lord groused to himself, recalling the last time he'd been robbed. The man's hands were cut off once he was caught, but Fergus still wasn't pleased that it happened in the first place, that anyone would dare to steal from a Cousland._

_Gwyneth had no choice, as Fergus all but thrust the littlest noble amongst them, into his aunt's awkward arms. "You know I don't like . . . " _'holding the little brat.' _She finished in her head, Oren's eyes on her keeping the words from being spoken out loud. He wrapped his arms around her neck, and she hissed when the movement accidentally pulled her hair, hanging loosely that day. She fidgeted from foot to foot, her new heeled shoes pinching her toes, but they were fine to look at, and Gwyneth felt the beauty of them was worth it. Though she was sorely tempted to take them off as she stood there. Oren went to reach for the golden 'C' of her amulet and she pulled his fingers away. "Don't touch."_

_A dark blot was running towards them across the grass, the backdrop of Castle Cousland looming on the high cliffs. As the man drew closer, the attire of one of the stable elves became clear. The small male was out of breath, pointed ears bobbing with his head as he tried to compose himself, daring to look up at the piercing faces of Lord and Lady Cousland. "Beg Pardon, m'Lordship. The teyrn is asking for you, they brought that new stallion in, and he's causing an awful ruckus. Teyrn Bryce says you have the best way with the horses."_

_Gwyneth squawked, as Fergus sent her an apologetic look. "No! Fergus, no. You promised you'd spend this afternoon with _me_! You've barely spent any time with me at all this past month . . . you _promised_."_

_Oren started fussing, his aunt's temper affecting him in kind. Gwyneth jostled him then, unconsciously tightening her hold._

_"I _am_ sorry, dear heart, but when Father beckons us, it's our duty to be there. You know how he is. This time, it's _my_ turn. Here . . ." He rummaged in his coin purse, handing Gwyneth two golden sovereigns, shiny in their newness. "Get Oren some of the those chocolate truffles from Orlais that he likes, and a new gentleman's coat for the summer. He's far too many winter cloaks left over."_

_"I'm no nursemaid!" She shouted after him, but the bastard only winked at her, as if to tell her to stuff her head, as he bounded off with that elf. All at once Gwyneth thought she'd have that bloody elf fired, it was what he deserved, disrupting her afternoon plans as he had. She certainly couldn't take her anger out on her father, and the stable elf made a better target. "Blast!" The lady seethed._

_Oren watched her curiously, big eyes blinking, when he erupted with a mimic of his father. "Why you always in damn hurry?"_

_Gwyneth's mouth fell open, looking at the small boy in her arms, astounded. "_What_ did you just say?" Snorting, unable to keep the faint amusement from her face, she tutted at him, tapping his nose with one longer finger. He clearly didn't know what he was saying, the clueless smile on his face evidence of that, but still . . . "That isn't very nice, especially when your poor aunt now has to drag you along with her."_

_His toddler attentions were varied and not all that focused, and a wild fox caught the periphery of his vision, and Oren set to squirming until Gwyneth was forced to put him on the ground before he hurt himself. Before she got a decent hold on him again, he was bounding off, short chubby legs quicker than his aunt ever thought they could be._

_"Oren Cousland! You come back here this instant! You obey me now!" Her shouting went unheeded amidst Oren's joyful cries of 'fox!' At least he knew what it was, even if it hadn't occurred to his young mind, that he'd likely never catch the thing, and if he did, it was far too wild to tolerate being pet. "Little brat!" She snarled, gathering her skirts to chase after him, giving up on her shoes to haul them off so she might run faster._

_He fell short as the red fox disappeared into a willow thicket, tumbling down on to the ground with a short squawk of surprise. Gwyneth smiled in relief, a silent prayer sent to the Maker, as she could now catch the little demon. Then his crying broke the sounds of the coast, burbling loudly until they became full blown screams._

_Gwyneth ran as fast as she could, panting as she fell, worried, onto her knees beside him as he wailed. His eyes were bright for the tears that filled them, running down his quickly reddening cheeks. Once he saw her, he reached out, lower lip trembling. "It hurts!"_

_All her irritation and self importance fled, replaced by an almost natural instinct to comfort a screaming child. Later she'd tell herself she was just doing her duty as a good aunt, that she didn't really care, but in that moment, she cared a great deal. "Let me see, what have we done here?"_

_He held out his arm, a small trickle of blood running from a shallow cut where he'd skinned it on a rock or the like. It wasn't nearly the affair he was making it out to be, but to a two year old mind, it was probably more the surprise of being hurt that scared him. _

_She fetched her own handkerchief where it had been wadded into her coin purse, dabbing at his arm before tying the soft cloth around it, planting a brief kiss over it. "There, see? All better. You're a Cousland, and we don't feel sorry for ourselves, so up with you, up on those feet. There's a good lad."_

_His small fingers curled tightly around her much larger ones, sniffling, but free of his louder crying. Looking up at her, his face still pink, those eyes seemed impossibly big. "Don't tell Papa?"_

_"No, I don't think it would do for him to know about this." Gwyneth smiled, free to do so when no one was looking, when there was no one to point out the weakness she had for her young nephew. She despised his mother, and the boy was an incessant bratty thing, but Gwyneth loved him, the blood of her blood. "We'll keep this just between us. Come then, Ser Oren the Brave, and let's away with you, and get you in better attire for a trip into the city. If we can convince your . . . mother to consent." She _just _wrestled herself from a less pleasant title for Oriana._

_As she moved away, she felt a tug on her skirts, Oren paused to reach up for her, lip stuck between new teeth. With a sigh, Gwyneth knelt down to pick him up, settling him on one hip. "Just this once, you understand, you need to walk on your own after this."_

_Oren only hummed happily, nuzzling into her neck. "Love you, Auntie Gwyn."_

_The Lady of Highever felt a sharp twinge in her heart, eyes pricking with emotion, brushing hair back from her nephew's forehead. She said nothing though, instead holding him closer, but he knew she loved him back and that too, was their secret._

* * *

_**June 17'th, 9:31, Dragon Age**_

**T**he sun was drawing down and Gwyneth felt a yawn trying to escape the cage of her chest, shaking her head to stay awake as she relaxed a little too much. Alistair reached across the small distance between them, and nudged her.

"I'm . . . I'm awake, I'm awake." She murmured unconvincingly.

He snorted. "Sure you are, and I'm the King of Ferelden."

Gwyneth grinned, after another brief yawn, at his silliness. "You _are_ the King of Ferelden."

Some of her enjoyment was forced, the all too brief joy from her reunion with her brother was running cold, replaced by a surprising dislike of her own person. She'd never run from her tears, indulging in them often to great effect against others, chiefly the men in her life, but there had been far too many shed in Fergus' presence that day, and the eve that came before it. They did not offer her any victory or prize, instead playing the backdrop to a childish need to express hurt and be comforted, something Gwyneth had convinced herself she'd grown out of. It seemed she was wrong, and all it took was Fergus' return to her side to make her realize just _how_ wrong she'd been.

Within those suffocating thoughts, the bit of honest enjoyment was siphoned, not unlike the smallest bits of gold mined through silt. It was a pleasant illusion, however, and the smile produced was real enough in the relief it offered to the tightness throughout the rest of her face. Alistair seemed not to notice, and that made things easier.

It wasn't so very difficult, not nearly as much as her personal trepidations had predicted, to make an effort at friendship again, and the ease in such friendly banter took the stiffness from anxious limbs. For that, Gwyneth found herself drawn in by Alistair's easy humor and odd sense of timing on when to use it. That on its own, was also pleasant. A glance back at Fergus, and she knew he did not feel the same way. Male posturing at its finest, and her brother was the best performer in that 'craft' _He'd come around _. . . _maybe_.

Fergus had, for as long as she could remember, been good natured beneath the inherited self worth that stood proud on Cousland banners. He had the same self respect inherent in their family line for life age upon life age, and the biting retorts and sharp wit was no less with the heir apparent than it had been for Gwyneth, but Fergus was always the nicer of the two. His smiles came easier and fell more warmly than his younger sister's had ever done. For quite awhile, she'd been jealous of that, her envy expressed in insults thrown at him when their parents were absent, or the childish pranks that had taken almost sixteen years to be weaned out of her. Yet, for her jealousy, she'd coveted Fergus' attention, venal pride swelling under her ribs, when she would flirt her way into trouble, her big brother always coming to 'rescue' her, leaving whatever conquest he'd been engaged in.

It'd been a game of sorts and when he'd gotten married to that milquetoast, Oriana, he no longer wished to play it. Gwyneth had even convinced herself that her sister by marriage had _pretended_ to grow thick with child, so soon after the vows at that, to steal Fergus away from her. Until it became obvious that it was no ruse. Then, all Fergus' attention had been bestowed on his wife's swollen belly, and the hatred for Oriana grew large and bitter, lancing through Gwyneth's gut and stabbing out from her eyes. But such had always been her way, and she was aware of it. Wanting her brother's attention, wanting to be important, and despising the mere thought of being set aside.

Fergus had not been so. He had still swaggered through the red lantern district of Highever, still returned the enamored gazes of castle servants with flirtatious glances, but he wasn't upset if those gazes landed elsewhere. His confidence that he stood above any other young lord, kept vain disappointment at bay.

Then the world behind the walls of Castle Cousland had broken apart, and the roles brother and sister both had played, were twisted around like the iron spikes of war torn fences.

Gwyneth had always been pleased to know that Fergus could be as jealous as she often was, past altercations ending in ways that made that clear, and she couldn't deny some enjoyment taken from being reminded of her importance. Still, if Alistair was not such a forgiving sort, Fergus could have been severely punished for his actions that morning. She'd long held Alistair's weak forgiveness against him, but that day, she was glad for it.

He spoke, almost as if he'd sensed she was thinking about him. Gwyneth nearly jumped, surprised to be pulled from her thoughts, turning her head to look at him blankly.

"And you seem to be awake after all. What a coincidence." He grinned, pleased that her earlier displeasure had faded a lot more quickly than it might have in the past. Alistair wasn't foolish enough to believe it was entirely as it seemed. He'd learned the hard way that Gwyneth was as consummate a thespian as she was a politician. Maybe, those two talents went hand in hand anyway, if his time in the Bannorn was any indication. But there was something warm and endearing in her smiles, left untainted by the curl of a snide lip, or the bite of sarcasm sliding through her teeth like small blades.

She might have said something, but the two small wooden watch towers just outside the village, came into view, as their company drew closer. Silence pervaded all, since it was what they were met with, confusion creating the same held tongues the absent greeting had. Wind blew light against the thin wood of the two short towers, as if searching for the men that should have been there.

Alistair had given a royal order that every town in Ferelden place at least two guards outside their village, no matter how small it was, to watch for any darkspawn. A brief warning was better than none, and he frowned to think that they hadn't listened, with their own safety left unconsidered. He wanted to help his people, but some of them made it very difficult.

Ser William cleared his throat, calling out anyway. "Guardsmen of Greenfell, we greet you in the name of the Crown of Ferelden. We announce ourselves as the royal caravan of His Great Majesty, King Alistair, in the company of Queen Gwyneth and the high and honorable Teyrn Cousland. Entrance and quarter are requested!"

Nothing but silence answered him, and he fidgeted, a lost glance sent to the king, who motioned at him to try again, only to be interrupted by the teyrn.

"As your teyrn, I demand an answer that assures me you were not asleep at your posts! Guardsmen, give answer or be held in arrest for failure to fulfill your duties!" Fergus' voice was gruff and loud, but he had no better luck than Ser William. Huffing in displeasure, he brought his mount beside his sister. "It's getting late on, we should go to the inn regardless, where perhaps we can inquire as to why they've not been guarding their town. Gilmore!"

"Your Grace?"

"Was anyone here when you stopped to get supplies yesterday?"

"Yes, Milord. Two younger men on the towers, another walking with a pair of hounds near the guard shack there." The ginger haired knight gestured to the small outbuilding, a short arch made of cobblestones built past it, where a knoll rose with the road leading into the village. A wooden sign was painted and hung over the arch with thick rope, welcoming them to Greenfell in sloppy black lettering.

'_Firewood, country food and friendly lodging. Maker save the king, and Maker save you who spend coin here_!" A more enthusiastic greeting was burned into a fancier sign that had been nailed to a stake, leaning up against one side of the arch, a drying garland of willow leaves hanging over it.

"When was that, exactly?" Gwyneth looked ahead, seeing no one, not even the guard dogs Ser Gilmore spoke of. She couldn't hear them either, only the sound of a light breeze blowing a collection of hanging metal bells at either side of Greenfell's village sign.

"In the morning, Majesty, bit early, the little shop they have was just opening when I got here."

"Store, Gilmore, it's called a _store_. Villages don't have _shops_." Fergus corrected, pointing to the road before them, and turning to the king. "Well, are we going in?"

Alistair was hungry and tired, and though he wouldn't tell Gwyneth, he'd grown fond of warm baths. He could certainly enjoy one for his sore legs, not enough sleep attributing to the stiffness from riding on a horse practically all day. He looked to his wife, and she nodded at him. "Yes, let's do that. Leave one of the carriages here, bring only the supply wagon, and most of my knights can stay at this gate, guarding the town, since they don't seem to want to do that themselves." He called out to his knights, keeping his register smooth and enforcing without sounding too demanding. Alistair had been trying to find ways to assert his authority without sounding quite as snooty about it as Gwyneth usually did. "Ser William? I'll let you decide on shifts for the night, and bring your men to the inn for some supper in pairs of five, get some bread and dried mutton to bring back and I'll have most of you camp here. It's a small village, I don't want to overrun them. Her Majesty and I will go into the village with Teyrn Cousland. Ser Boughton, you're with me, Ser Hadrian, you too."

"Yes, Sire!" The agreement came immediately.

Fergus was impressed that the knights moved in such short order, but Alistair didn't need to hear that. Maybe the king was trying to show him up. _Well, he'd be damned to let _that _happen_! "Gilmore, make sure everything is secured here. Her Majesty's safety is of the utmost importance and I want to be certain she is well guarded from any intruders that may come at us from our backs. Then you're to come with me, bring four more men with you, and the rest may attend the village gate with the king's knights. Remember, we need to watch for any hiding despots we chased out of Highever."

"Of course, Your Grace." Ser Gilmore nodded, looking proud as he went about his task.

Noble clambered down from the wagon to walk in step beside Gwyneth's horse, snuffling at the ground every few moments, but nothing must have interested him much. The mabari stayed silent, even as the first of the few outer buildings of Greenfell came into view over the knoll.

Most were built from the same cobblestones the arch was made of, hardy and strong, to endure the winter storms that blew down from the coast. Their roofs were edged in thick wood, coated with hay thatching. Gwyneth shook her head at that. The homes were sturdy, but the roofs were no better built or more modern than when the buildings were all huts and the children ran about naked in the mud, rolling with the dogs.

Gwyneth was certain that half of Ferelden's problem wasn't in getting on its feet after the Great Rebellion or the Fifth Blight, but in moving out of its own way. So many people feared change that they would sooner strangle themselves, with their barbarian customs. The same old standards that had shackled them to unsophistication and lack of growth for centuries.

Thatched roofs in Greenfell were only a small sign of the country's crippling stagnation, but perhaps the Blight had proven a strange blessing in that way. The destruction wrought by the darkspawn and the marks of the near civil war that had come with it, forced Ferelden into a place where the people _had_ to rebuild, and in that Gwyneth might have better success with enforcing new building standards. Replacing hay thatching with carved eaves would seem unimportant in the grand scheme of things. She knew that, but if it was the entry point into moving her people into a future in which Ferelden was just as sophisticated as Orlais, that's what she'd do.

She closed her eyes as the sunset peaked over a grassy hillock, blood orange rays peeking through the willow forests surrounding three sides of the village. It painted the buildings in a reddish hue, bright enough to light up the village, but at the upper edges of the horizon, dark clouds were laying in wait. Usually, a red sky in the evening gave sign of a good morning to follow, but not always, and Gwyneth frowned.

It was getting late, and she was tired, and the last thing she wanted to contend with was a summer thundershower rolling in. The air was calm and dry enough, the crawling humidity that seemed to proceed such storms, not present, but that was no guarantee. As the queen looked around her, watching as they all were, for any of the villagers, she caught her brother's stare, drawing close to him to whisper.

"What?"

"I think you should've stayed at the village gate. Just because you survived a Blight doesn't mean you should continue placing yourself in perilous situations." Fergus curled his lip in displeasure.

"Peril? In what form? A lack of proper greeting when we arrived? Bullocks!" She ignored Fergus' hot glare. "Mostly I'm irritated that the king's law isn't so respected out here. They damn well knew they were suppose to have guardsmen posted, at _all_ times. The writ Eamon had sent out was not a negotiation." Silver eyes narrowed, pupils dilating pointedly in incensed distaste.

Fergus nodded in agreement, with a short huff. "Moorlanders have always been stubborn, thinking they can defend themselves and then crying for aid once their meager planning fails them. It was ever the same, even in Father's rule over these lands. I remember Greenfell in particular, the times I've been here were never very pleasant."

"Ah, but I seem to recall a rather buxom maid at the inn you were ever sneaking away with. There must have _some _charm to the country life, or was that only to be found under her skirts?" She snickered at the wide eyes her brother gave her.

"You always were a snoop, and when did you become so blithe? Talking about anyone being _buxom_ would've painted a blush on you for certain. I'm afraid your days away from Highever have changed more than your sword arm." He scoffed, watching her closely as she shrugged, a cheeky grin pulling her lips up at both corners.

"Oh, my dearest Fergus, you've no idea, but at least now I am wise to the ways of you men. You aren't half as mysterious as you pretend to be." She stuck her nose in the air, superiority etched in every curve of her face, but eyes watching sideways from beneath long lashes, mouth twitching.

Fergus raised an eyebrow. "Is that so? And _you_, Gwyny-Gwyn aren't half as clever as you think _you_ are."

"I beg your pardon?" She screeched, embarassed when her brother had to shush her. "This bickering is useless."

The teyrn only smiled, knowing he'd won that game. "Of course it is." He settled back on his saddle, the broad curve of his lips twisting from enjoyment at besting his sister, to eerie confusion.

He'd not seen a single person, and they were entering the village proper now, the houses built closer together and the tall posts in front of the inn casting long shadows against the windows. "Where _is _everyone? Hello, I say, if you fear bandits or darkspawn, folk of Greenfell, be assured we are neither!" His own voice seemed incredibly loud to him, breaking the sound of the breeze and the windchimes in front of the inn's double doors.

No answer, not even the neighing of horses, the barking of dogs, or the bleeting of the sheep the village took pride in. The last animals he had heard, were the questioning 'whuffs' from Gwyneth's hound, and the small 'baa'ing of the sheep they'd brought back with them in the wagons. Both of those noises were gone now as well, the sheep left with the rest of the men back at the main gate, and Noble only perking his ears up and looking about with rapidly flickering brown eyes.

Gwyneth placed a flat palm above her brow, shielding her line of sight from the sunset, to peer around her. "Where are the children? It's not dark yet, and you and I were always playing around until the servants were sent out to shepherd us in. And the farmers? The men on Lord Eddelbrek's lands used to work well into the first hours of the night, especially those that had herds instead of just fields to till. Fergus . . . there's not a living soul here."

Alistair felt a pensive tightness form between his shoulder blades, tensed up and waiting for the slightest noise. "You said Ser Gilmore came to collect supplies yesterday morning, there were people here _then_. Could they have all packed up and left, maybe? Afraid of the men you were chasing?" He took the risk of speaking to Teyrn Cousland, not sure of how well a response he might garner.

Fergus shook his head. "I doubt the _whole_ _village_ would be frightened off by that. The mother of this chantry passed a letter on through Gilmore, she was concerned that some people had lost faith in the Maker to protect them, worried about rumors of your darkspawn, and were leaving, but certainly not everyone. Of the ones that remained, if _darkspawn_ didn't scare them from hearth and home, I very much doubt some _highwaymen_ would."

That was logic that couldn't be argued with, but it didn't answer the question in any of their minds either.

"Then where did they all go?" Alistair posed, certain no one else knew, and they didn't.

Ser Gilmore raised his voice, clearing his throat. "There are no signs of battle here on the main road and the buildings look intact. I can see at least four supply wagons from here, two next to the inn, one by the saddlery and another down by that two story house to the left."

Fergus nodded. "Aye, that'd be the mayor's home. Master Tennan. Decent man, though on in his years. Not a whole lot to manage in Greenfell, it's a simple village for the most part." That had always been true, and the silence that enveloped them made Fergus all the more uneasy because of it. The villagers were simple, but far from lazy, it was busy whenever he had been here with his family, and though that had been some time in passing, things were unlikely to have changed.

"Ser Boughton, you're our scout, I want you to take Noble with you, look around." Alistair motioned, and the man did so, the royal mabari attending to his own duties and following closely behind.

Gwyneth glared at him, her whisper waspish. "He's _my_ mabari, don't you think _I _should decide where he goes?"

"You object?" Alistair raised a brow.

At that, she only sniffed, looking away stiffly. "I suppose not." Her demeanor softened entirely once she turned her gaze on her brother. "Fergus, might Ser Gilmore go as well? He's been here before afterall, and recently in fact."

The new teyrn smiled, nodding. "Of course, pup. Gilmore? Go along then, and be on your guard. Just because we don't hear anything, doesn't mean there is nothing waiting in the shadows."

"Aye, Your Grace, it will be done."

Alistair clambered down from his horse, waving off Ser Hadrian's offer to assist him. He was a grown man before he was a king, and had experience with horses long before that, and in front of Fergus he certainly didn't want to look like he needed assitance. That would do nothing to make Teryn Cousland think more of him.

Gwyneth's voice made his spine twitch.

"What are you doing? We should stay here until Ser Gilmore and Boughton return." She wiggled in the saddle, twitchy and on edge, despite her claims of bravado to her brother. There was something sitting on the air, tasteless, odorless, but still heavy and present. It made small bumps form along her upper arms, seeming to tingle every time the low wind caused the chimes near them to ring.

"Gwyn, I'm fine. I just want to take a look inside the inn. See, if there might be some villagers hiding in the cellar, if the inn even has one. I want them to know their king isn't idle."

"It does." Fergus intersposed. "The wenches brought up wine for me from the cellars last summer, I remember my son asked me why it was always colder down there." A wistful smile brought light to the man's face, thin lips looking a healthy pink from the vitality offered in pleasant memories. "Oren thought it was magic. I almost wanted to let him keep believing that." He trailed off, forgetting that he was speaking to anyone, let alone his brother in law. At Gwyneth's sorrowful sniffle, Fergus remembered too swiftly that all he'd ever have were those memories. She caught his eyes and they stared at one another for passing seconds, nothing left but the two of them, until Alistair cleared his throat.

"Right . . . well . . . I'm going in. Ser William, you can come with me." He wouldn't go alone, as he remembered all too well how Gwyneth had berated him for that after his hunting accident. Alistair had no wish for a repeat performance, and to be honest, he felt a little on edge himself, not made better by the discomfort he felt at being privy to the teyrn's loss. That man was a pompous ass to be sure, but Alistair couldn't begin to imagine what it was like to lose a child so young.

"Wait!" The queen called out, her typical superiority missing from her tone in her haste to get down. Alistair moved to catch her when one boot heel got caught on the saddle strap, the instinct as natural as anything, though he'd wonder later why it was. She paused there, stuck between her horse's flank and Alistair's chest. It was a strange silence between them, but not entirely uncomfortable. A brief smile tilted her mouth, and she turned her chin in Fergus' direction. "My brother and I aren't ones to sit idle, isn't that right, Fergus?"

"Hmph." Was his only response, grumbling something under his breath as he got down to the ground, dusting off the knees of his fine leather breeches.

"We're coming with you." Gwyneth's voice was far more chipper than she felt, but she certainly didn't want to stay out there on that frighteningly silent main road, wondering what was going on once Alistair and William disappeared from sight.

"I don't . . ." Alistair began to protest, but Fergus was glaring and Gwyneth looked tense and all he could do in the end was sigh and nod. "Alright, we'll probably need a lantern, though I suppose no one . . ."

Fergus' grinned in self congratulations, patting a light hand against his saddle bag. "Torches are difficult to keep dry on the Coastlands, and our father always taught us that an enclosed lantern is a far better light in the dampness of coastal caves and willow forests."

So it was that a group of four of them, cautiously went inside.

* * *

Waning sunlight cast dusty, dim shafts into the main room of the inn, floating dust motes shining like living things in the wick of Fergus' lit lantern. Gwyneth squinted into that dimness, the room just as absent of anyone, save themselves, as it was outside.

She shivered, though it wasn't cold. "Let's hurry this up, shall we? I don't care to be here when it gets dark."

In front of her, Alistair nodded, reaching back for her hand, but she didn't offer it in return, leaving him to look foolish unless he retracted his palm again. "Yeah, well, I don't think anybody else does either, so . . ." His boots slid on a slippery puddle on the floor that he hadn't seen, and the king reached forward to grab the edge of a round table. Blissfully it was bolted down, or he would've toppled it over. "What the Hell?"

"Majesty! Are you alright?" William was at his side instantly, bending down to remove one riding glove and swept his fingers across the floor, bringing them to his nose to take a gingerly sniff.

"I'm okay . . . what is that?"

"Ale, I think. Country inns like this, they get travelers that can get pretty rowdy." The knight explained as if in apology, as the king only shrugged.

"And they apparently can't be bothered to clean either. Look at the dust in the air! This place is filthy!" Gwyneth groused, sniffing delicately and wrinkling her nose. She stepped closer to Fergus and his lantern, the flickering light catching on the planes of her face and making her eyebrows look dark and demonically arched.

Alistair tried not to laugh at how she looked, focusing instead on her snobbery. "They probably don't get a lot of traffic these days, and I bet they don't have a lot of staff either. I wouldn't be one bit surprised if there was just the owner tending bar and _one_ bar maid to serve the drinks. You remember Lloyd's, in Redcliffe? Same thing."

"Vaguely." Gwyneth flicked a wrist to enunciate the lack of impression the tavern had made. "And that's no excuse." She looked around at the empty tables, a wink of glass revealing the tipped over ale mug that had been the culprit behind Alistair's slip. "Not that it matters, there's no one here to serve anybody anyway." A cough to clear her throat, and she was shouting. "Hello! Is anyone in here? If you are hiding, this is your queen speaking, there's no cause to continue on as you have, we are more than able to assist you!"

There was no echo, the sound absorbed by the thick wooden furniture in the room, but a cone of silence was the only answer, and Gwyneth frowned, though she wasn't expecting much else.

"Isn't that _my_ line?" Fergus teased, tapping his fingers on the hilt of the Cousland family blade, where it rested in its sheath.

"Nonsense. You're no one's queen, and _my _voice carries better besides." She smiled snidely, ribbing him in the side, only to scream at a large clatter.

Fergus swung his lantern to catch a thick ceramic plate, who had the luck not to be smashed, spinning lopsided on the floor until it came to a rest.

Ser William laughed nervously, apologizing. "Begging your pardon, must've hit it with my elbow."

"_Clumsy oaf_." The teyrn hissed in a whipser that only his sister heard, as they kept looking. "Here now . . . what's this?" He drew closer to a linen poster nailed to the wall behind the bar. _'All drinks half the coin on Sundays, blessings for Her Majesty._' Aww, isn't that cute, they give their patrons a discount if they drink when they should be attending matins, and all for your sake. Not a bad likeness of you here, either. Little plain though."

Gwyneth huffed as she got a look of her own face, done up in pale inks against the drab cloth. _Why did they always paint her face up like a whore? _"I certainly don't wear _that_ much rouge." She walked closer, as William and Alistair headed towards the pantry. The sound of broken glass crunched under her boots and she stopped, crouching down. "All the bottles back here are broken, every last one." Her own feet were sliding against the floorboards, wet as the puddle that had sent Alistair skidding away. "Damn spirits are soaking into the . . ." Gwyneth's voice caught, as Fergus came around the corner of the bar with his lantern, the light shining on the drying dark red fluid beneath their feet. "Fergus . . . I don't think this is ale."

Both pairs of eyes travelled the length of the crimson trail that led away from the bar and towards one of the backrooms. Gwyneth looked up at her brother, irises gone almost comically wide as her breath hitched. He nodded and the two of them carefully made their way to the doorway of what seemed to be a fully stocked pantry.

What she saw there made her shriek in revulsion.

Alistair had been in the middle of the stairway leading down to the cellar, Ser William ahead of him in the darkness, wondering where Fergus Cousland and his lantern had wandered off to, when he heard her scream. He turned and bolted up the stairs so fast that he nearly twisted his ankle, jumping over the barrier of the bar, breath rushing and worried.

"Gwyn! Gwyn, what happened? Are you hurt?" Brown eyes flicked back and forth rapidly, but even through her silence, the answer was plain to see. She was cuddled into Fergus' side, her face pressed to his neck to keep from seeing into the room before them. Fergus looked over her head, his own facade a frozen one. "What is it?" Alistair turned to take in the barely lit pantry. His eyes fell on full sacks against the walls, under tables, unopened ale and wine casks, and what was left of a man, lain in broken up chunks in a puddle of drying blood.

He felt a gagging sensation in his throat, the bitter, coppery smell of fresh blood filling his nostrils, once his body became accustomed to all he was seeing and his other senses came to the fore. "Andraste wept! Was it an animal? Why wasn't the rest of the place destroyed in the fight then?"

All of the four back windows were broken out, bits of glass sparkling in the lantern light. Outside the sun had sunken down ever further, more time spent in that building than they had thought. There was no getting out of Greenfell before dark.

"It was no animal! He's broken apart . . . in . . . in pieces!" Gwyneth cried, her disgust sending her to bend over at the knees, trying not to gag at the smell.

Alistair sent her a sympathetic frown. Out of all of their companions during the Blight, the gore they'd often encountered, had affected Gwyneth the worst. The rest of them had never enjoyed it, but came to see past it by the sheer and unfortunate necessity of surviving a war. Gwyneth had never become so accustomed, her battle rage the only thing that let her ignore it, or the hatred she felt for Rendon Howe that let her take enjoyment from it. Yet, she seemed to also enjoy violence in other ways that concerned Alistair, but when faced with blood and guts, it was a different story altogether.

"William, cover up the body with a tablecloth, or a bunch of empty sacks or . . . _some_thing." Even _he_ had hard time continuing to look at the chunks of a once whole corpse that decorated the floor. "Gwyn, we'll get out of here soon, I promise."

She nodded, back turned and standing in the doorway. Fergus had drifted away from her, past the initial shock of their discovery, and lacking his sister's squeamish stomach as he knelt down next to the body. "These pieces, they're almost like he was _shattered_. No animal that I know of would have done this. It has to be black magecraft of some sort, blood magic perhaps."

"Oh yes, that's so easy isn't it? Have a problem? Must be those pesky mages." Gwyneth snarled, turning her head enough to see Fergus out of the corner of her eye, but not enough to look at the corpse's remnants. "Forgetting that most people don't know a fig from a fireball, but they'd all chase after her, wouldn't they? Because they're too fucking lazy to come up with another answer!"

"_Her_? Her _who_? And what the Hell is your sensitivity over _that_? I'm just saying . . ." The teryn began, the tolling of the chantry bell interrupting him. His head went straight, body bolting up from the floor like an alert stag in a forest full of hunters. Around him the others did the same, Gwyneth jumping when the bells rang again.

Without say anything, they all ran outside. The double doors of the inn slammed shut behind them, the remaining men waiting in the road, though dismounted. Fergus growled at them. "Well, don't just stand there! We're going to Chantry!"

Gwyneth put a hand on his arm. "Fergus . . . what if . . . what if it isn't citizens ringing those bells?"

"What else would it be, Gwyn?" He shook her off.

Alistair was already leading them down the road at a run, and she had no choice but to follow, the darkening village curling long arms about them. Every window she ran past, Gwyneth imagined there was something watching her, unable to shake that feeling no matter her silent reassurances. Since they'd crossed that first archway, she had felt that slow crawl of dread up her spine, making her jumpier than normal. Gwyneth hadn't felt as on edge since they'd been in the Deep Roads, where she'd often had to bite her tongue to keep from screaming when a pile of rocks fell loose.

It was that same strangling quiet present in Greenfell, a whisper on the faint wind that did not seem so kind and when she'd seen what was left of that man, the only evidence of harm befalling the village, it made her feel sick with fear. Snipping at Fergus had only been a means to quell it, and Gwyneth cursed herself for revealing more than she wanted to in her nervousness. He'd surely latch on to that later, but for now, she tried to steel herself, the small chantry looming ahead.

She'd wanted to be gone by dark, but it was too late for that now, the last bit of sun clawing at the horizon to hold on. That thin line of red finally disappeared as the village was draped in the faint glow of a gibbous moon, clouded over.

The whole village, just gone, and only one body accounted for. Yet now the blood she had dismissed on the sheep's wool seemed a far more sinister thing. What she _didn't_ know felt a lot more frightening than what she _did_, so many awful explanations available in the more creative recesses of her imagination. In camparison, bandits would be a blessing.

Neither herself or Alistair had experienced the crawling insect feeling that the nearness of darkspawn had caused them before. Since the archdemon's demise, there had been not even an inkling, but there was certainly . . . something, sitting on the air in Greenfell. When the ringing of the bells had begun, Gwyneth wanted to believe it was a villager, ringing for aid, but belief and truth were not always in tandem.

The sunburst cross of the maker, wrought in its iron framework, cast an evening shadow along the shallow stairs at the front of the chantry, the bell tower, squatty and brick-bare, echoed with the pair of heavy bells that had been clanging within. The doors were shut, the windows glassless, just as shattered as those in the pantry of the inn, but still and dark. Whatever had broken them was gone for now, and the group hesitated before the shadow of the Maker's cross. Noble was with Ser Gilmore and Boughton, all of those that had entered the village gathered before the strangley foreboding doors of Greenfell's small chantry, no happier than the humans around him. It was an odd feeling, chantries usually the source of hope and forgiveness, not the cloying disquiet of fear unknown.

Yet, there was no denying the feeling, even Noble had his ears cocked back, a whine low and persistent in his throat as the mabari sniffed the plain wood of the door in front of him. As they came open to the careful tugging of Alistair's hands, the first among them brave enough to go inside, there was little but a short gust of pent up air, riddled with dust and the smell of carved pews and old incense.

A collected pair of eyes immediately looked to the doors of the bell tower, nestled into a corner, the deep shadow of the statue of Andraste cloaking it, but not enough to keep them from noticing it was closed. The ringing had ceased almost as soon as they entered the chantry, and as ears strained to listen to even the faintest noise, there was naught but the delicate wind outside, rustling its way across the stone floor, beneath freshly lain rushes.

Beneath the statue, at Andraste's feet were similar ghastly remains as those they'd found at the inn, these the broken remnants of a chantry sister, or perhaps the mother. It was difficult to tell, even as Fergus swung his lantern to seek out the nooks and angles of the wide room, lighting upon the chunks of the woman's face. A mouth caught, bloodless and open to a silent scream of agony.

Gwyneth's stomach gave another lurch, still as uneasy as if she were seasick and she glanced away. That time, when Alistair offered his hand, she took it, bare fingers threading through his glove covered ones. She was worried he'd offer some empty platitude, it wasn't as if he was free of them, the usless 'everything will be alright' He'd said as much before, for different reasons, but then, he was silent. Perhaps he knew it _wasn't _alright, that coming upon such scenes after the fact, too late to do more than look on in disgust and horror, was nothing that could be soothed away with bald talk. Whatever had happened here was awful, more so for the fact that the remants left behind provided no clear answers, only the silence of a village that had become a graveyard, with most of the corpses stolen away.

"Someone had to be ringing the bells. There are a few gear setups in Tevinter, made by the dwarves, that can be set to ring them automatically, but we've nothing like that in Ferelden." Fergus offered succintly, eyes peering into the lantern-lit dimness.

"Well there's no one here now, and I'd really like to get out of . . ." Gwyneth's voice fell short, cut by her shocked scream as a blotch of movement ran through the rows of pews and dashed beneath the grates of a small vestibule portculis.

Fergus scrambled to his knees, the lantern swinging, wick threatening to go out. Ser Gilmore moved to head the thing off as it skittered rapidly to escape from them, Ser William blocking it at the other end. Cornered into the vestibule, there was nowhere left to go. Fergus eased forward slowly, sword drawn at his hip, the King standing guard behind him, Gwyneth wary and watchful at his back.

"What is it?" She whispered.

"Shh . . . it's . . ." His eyes took in the small legs and arms, shaking from fear, of them. "It's a _boy_." Astounded, he put his sword away, extending a hand. "Here lad, come here now, it's alright, we aren't going to harm you."

The boy only skittered back, whimpering and clutching at his bedraggled knees, filthy feet pulled back as if to hide from the lantern.

"Were you the one ringing the bells? We followed them, we found you and we're going to rescue you now, take you to your parents." He smiled like he used to when Oren woke up from a bad dream. "I'm Teyrn Cousland, do you know that name?"

He nodded. "Yes."

"Good, that's good, then you know that I can help you, so why don't you come out of there?"

Vehemently shaking his head, the boy tucked further into himself.

Fergus frowned. The lad must have been through some terrible things, but he could still speak and that was a good sign. It was hard to guess, but Fergus thought he wasn't any older than ten at the most. He motioned for Gilmore, whispering for him to cover up the dead cleric so the boy wouldn't see her when he did manage to coax him out of the vestibule. "I know you're scared, I don't know what happened but it was probably very frightening. I'd have been frightened too, but you can't want to stay in there forever. We'll take you with us, to Highever, you know about Highever right? A big, safe, walled city, and we might find your parents there."

"No. No you won't, they're dead." He cried into a dirty sleeve, sniffling. "One of 'em, screamed at my mama and killed her while I ran, and my papa . . . I found him in the field, they'd shrieked at him, shrieked at him and broke him into pieces!"

Gwyneth muffled a cry against her palm, pressing it over her mouth.

"Blessed Andraste." Alistair whispered, equally repulsed and sorrowful for the poor boy.

Fergus was dumbstruck at that, not knowing what to say to such a terrible thing. Gwyneth surprised him as she got down on her knees next to him, forcing a smile on her face.

"Hello, I'm Gwyneth."

"Your . . . your the queen?"

"That's right, you're a very wise boy. What's your name?"

"Har - Harold, Harold Hewitt." He was still nervous, watching her closely.

"Very nice to meet you Master Hewitt."

Fergus watched in surprise, unused to his sister sounding so gentle, behind him Alistair was curious but not quite as surprised.

Gwyneth was an apathetic, conceited and taciturn woman . . . but not with little ones. The first time he'd seen her so gentle had been with a small lost boy in Lothering, her softened demeanor had shocked him to his bones then, though once the lad had left them she was back to her sharp edged self. By now he'd realised that for some reason beyond his ken, Gwyneth had a soft spot for children. From observing her brother, it was something they both possesed, allowing them to see past the 'inferiority' of peasantry for just those few moments.

"Thank you for ringing the bells, so we could find you. It was _you_, wasn't it?" She smiled broader as he nodded. "I thought so. Why were you ringing the bells, Harold, can you tell me? Did you see us coming into the village?"

"No, ma'am. The pale ladies, they don't like the ringing noise. Mayor Tennan, he accidentally hit one of his iron fence posts with the small sword he has. They hissed and backed away from the sound." Harold swallowed loudly. "I . . . I thought maybe they'd go away if I rang the bells. I was ringing them all day, but . . . but I think they might just come at night. I know I should've left but I . . . I was so scared! They came in here and they . . . they killed Mother Adelaine!" He hiccuped with fresh tears, hugging himself as he rocked.

Gwyneth took a deep breath, to calm her own nerves before she could try to calm his. "I'm sure that was very scary, and I promise that no one else has to know you were scared. It will be our little secret, but sweetheart, you can't stay in here all night. You won't be safe unless you come with us, and leave before the pale ladies come back." She didn't know what he was talking about, and she didn't want to know.

Her spine arched, head turned towards the opened chantry doors as an awful wail split the air.

Harold whimpered. "They're already here."


	54. Chapter 54: Brides of Urthemiel

**Disclaimer:** _"Dragon Age: Origins" and all its expansions and additional content is the property of Bioware and EA Games. Large portions of written content within the game, as well as Dragon's Age: The Stolen Throne, and Dragon's Age: Calling, are the creation of David Gaider. Original scenarios and characters are used under the creative license of the writer, ItalianEmpress1985. No profit is being made and the following story is for entertainment purposes only._

**Words From The Author:**_ If anyone wants to have their skin crawl reading this, as I did writing it, I was listening to 'Sub Level 3' from the 'Aliens' from a VERY creepy scene in the movie and the music fit quite well with our resident wailing women. So I've put the link up to it, listed under extras on my profile._

_So there is no official name given to the ages in Thedas history that came before the Divine Age (at least none I can find), which was 1:1, other than to call it TE much like we have BC, but it was the time when the Old Gods were worshipped and the pinnacle of the Magisters' influences 'blessed' by the Old Gods. So I named it The Dark Age, it seemed to suit the way the Chantry goes about naming the ages, maybe they would consider the time before the first Divine as a dark time, where only the Chantry brought 'light' to the people afterward through the blessings of the Maker, but it's only 'canon' in so far as this story is concerned. Outside of it, I make no claims that it would be the same. And for reference, the characters are speaking Tevene, but this time I decided to write it in English (Fereldish) since I think a translation there might have ruined the feel of it._

_SPECIAL NOTE:__ The lovely Jaffa strikes again, this time with a wonderful portrait of our scarred and strident Ser Gerod Caron, which is up on DeviantArt as you read this. I've put the link to it, as always, in my profile, listed under extras._

_Also, happy Easter to those celebrating it, don't eat too many jelly beans! :p_

_Thank you for stopping in. Watch out for low flying dragons!_

* * *

_**Chapter Fifty Four:**_

_**Brides of Urthemiel**_

* * *

_**June 17'th, **_**7:90 TE, Dark Age**

_**T**__he young woman, belly filled with the growing, burning seed of a dragon god, was brought to the dais. _

_Lord Urthemiel's eyes were fierce and golden upon her, watching from a place upon His obsidian throne. His guise was the practiced glamour of a human, belying His _true_ size, set high above the dais, overlooking it all as His servants watched in kind._

_A ring of fire parted as if a thing alive, the woman's breathing frightened and hitched as she was led there, her red hair catching the light of it and looking as if it too were burning._

_Always the ones with red hair, that was what He liked, their Unholy Lord, and she had been sacrificed to appease Him. Her maidenhead offered to the immortal entity as the newest of His brides. At first she was honored to be chosen as the mate of a god, but now . . . now there was only fear._

_"Please, I . . . I don't want to die!" She implored the priest, a thin Tevinter magister brought to Urthemiel's service, her Avaar accent tripping over the more elegant Tevene language._

_"If fate decrees it, you shall survive this and be given the highest spot of honor beside Morgreth the Undying." The priest offered, no hint of sympathy in his smooth voice, only the certainty of his fanatical devotion to Morgreth Urthemiel. His one true god. "Weep not, young bride, perhaps you are the one He has been waiting for, perhaps _you_ shall be the mother of the Great Dragons, to bring them back to their glory. You should be grateful."_

_Her bare feet touched the warm stone, the white gown His servants had made for her tickling her ankles as the breeze off the flames moved it. She put a hand to her belly, wincing at the hot lance across it. Barely two months and the girl was already swollen to bursting. They grew fast, the Old Ones, but if the mother was unable, they did not live long. She knew that, had been told as much as the priests prepared her for her new role, but had never allowed herself to think of what that meant for the women that had come before her, all the brides of Urthemiel that no longer drew breath. Now she was one of their select group._

_"I am grateful! I _am_ . . . just please . . . please My Lord, do not kill me!" Her eyes drew big and wide, pleading with the entity that watched her from His high perch. She could not see His face through the flames, but the coldness of His answer could pierce even the hottest fire._

_"It is not _I _that shall kill you, my dear one, but _your_ failure to carry my seed that shall prove your end. My son hatches soon and we shall see if you are worthy." His voice boomed as a long roll of thunder, deep as the fissures in the earth. "If you are not, I shall have _another_ use for you."_

_As the chanting began, the ring of fire closing and encircling her within its barrier, she screamed as another burst of heat seared her insides. Falling to the ground and writhing into a ball of agony, she began to shriek with the pain of it. The roaring of the flames and the loud unified chanting like a macabre symphony to the screams of her unnatural childbirth._

_The flesh of her belly began to bubble from the heat, turning red and then white, yet the gown did not burn, made just for this purpose and enchanted against Urthemiel's unholy flames. "No! No! No!" She screamed, but each denial was met with another lick of flame inside her womb. The child she carried was burning its way out and she felt every moment of it.  
_

_As it burst free, her skin splitting open into burning ribbons of raw flesh, the woman wailed, an awful piercing sound that was heard over the roar of the Old God, as he bemoaned another failure. Her death came swiftly, even as the echoes of her shrieking seemed to absorb the flames and cast towards the night sky, full of pain and mourning._

* * *

_**June 17'th, 9:31, Dragon Age**_

Amstead shifted on his feet, from heel to toe and back again, leaning against the arch and staring towards town. "When do you think they'll come back? I'm getting hungry enough to eat that damn sheep." The thing made a short 'baa' as if it heard him.

One of the teyrn's men shook his head. "Don't know, I'm pretty sure we got all of Howe's men. Even if the teyrn's a might worried about them staying here, we'd have seen some signs of fighting if they had, like as not. Maybe they wanted to get a good meal in before sending someone back to notify us."

"Well, I hope it's soon. It's dark already and I can almost taste those Greenfell lamb chops." Amstead grinned, thinking about the barmaids at the inn. There were some just as tasty as the village's famed mutton, the last time he'd passed through there before the Blight had torn the country to shit. "Teyrn Cousland runs you all a little ragged, does he?"

There was a glare earned for the knight's trouble. "Certainly not. Can't imagine serving under a better man. A lot like his father that one, he expects the best from all of us, and won't settle for less. We know to mind our place and our business, not slouch about and moan our belly's problems. There could be more men like him, and the country would be better for it."

Amstead's nostrils flared, crossing his arms. "You wouldn't be slighting our Good King Alistair, now would you?"

"Have I reason to, boy?" The older man sneered, though he wasn't _that_ much older than Amstead. "Guilty conscience? Paranoid that everyone can see the famed Knights of Denerim might not be as skilled as they ought? Maybe, if your order had been trained as the Couslands have always trained _their_ men, King Cailan would still be alive."

"How _dare_ you besmirch my honor and that of my brothers! I should run you through and prove who is the better man here!" Amstead threatened, pale cheeks reddening in anger.

"Go on then, _boy_, prove how undisciplined you really are!" The teyrn's man retorted.

"What's all this bleeding noise?" A black haired barrel of a man that Amstead knew as a Lord Garvloch under Teyrn Cousland's service, and the man placed temporarily in charge of those that had stayed at the gate until Ser Gilmore's return, came towards them. He was a born soldier, with a gruff voice, who clearly had to try hard to maintain the expectations of the nobility he was born into.

Amstead thought Lord Garvloch would have been better suited as a blacksmith's son or a frigate sailor, but he wasn't going to tell _him_ that. The man was built like Ser Hadrian, only larger. Though Ser Amstead didn't consider himself a coward, it was a foolish hound that picked a fight with a bear without good cause. The smaller man puffed up his chest as much as he could. "Maybe, you should be telling Teyrn Cousland that his men ought to be minding their tongues."

"And maybe the king's lickspittles had better mind their _own_ manners around their betters!" His opponent returned in quick order.

Garvloch wasn't having any of it, cuffing his brother at arms. "Enough of that shit, Lord Henley! We're here to guard the gate until the teyrn orders us otherwise, not pick fights like two whores clawing at each other over the best customer of the evening!" Dark eyes glared at the knight in turn. "Teyrn Cousland would be ashamed to know his men couldn't follow such simple orders, and I'm sure Our King would be no more pleased to find his knights acting so stupidly. Mind yourselves, the both of you, because if someone _was _out there and we failed in our duty to protect our High Lord and His Majesty, that dishonor would be on _your_ heads!"

"Aye milord."

"Yes, captain."

Garvloch nodded, assuaged for the moment. A low sound off in the distance caught his attention, a hand at his sword hilt. "Eh! You hear that?"

All three men listened intently, the faint sounds of a girl crying crawling towards them on the early night air. "Villager maybe?" Lord Henley offered, shrugging and drawing his own sword.

The other men, gathered farther off to guard the wagons, hadn't heard, but Amstead informed them all the same, the three men going off to check it out.

A high moon lit the blades of grass, a sheen of fine dew making the field look shiny. Amstead felt the dampness trying to seep in through his boots, but he'd waterproofed them with wax some time ago, at the insistence of his overly-doting mother. Now he was glad for her harping. There was naught but the rustle of the knights and the lord's soldiers moving as quietly as they could, a thatch of willows rising up from the robust earth not far from them.

It wasn't until Ser Amstead took a deep breath, body taut with tension, that he realized the air had a peculiar heaviness to it, not made better by the eerie silence surrounding them. Not even the chirping of crickets, or owls that surely nested in the trees . . . just silence, and he shivered involuntarily. The whimpering noise had certainly come from this direction though.

"Too damn quiet!" Lord Henley hissed, Garvloch quick to shush him.

"Listen!" The bigger man ordered, fingers curling into a tight fist over the hilt of his blade. "There! Hear it?"

No answer was given, but for that faint crying, a strange echoing quality to it.

The king's knight was raised in the courtly ways, and though he didn't always prescribe to them, Amstead certainly took to heart the saving of damsels in distress, which was often its own reward. A sincere smile curved his lips as he went forward, a hand out to part the low hanging brambles, heavy with the willow leaves they bore.

"Here, miss, there's no need to be afraid. I'm a Knight of Denerim, and I have with me two of Good Teyrn Cousland's men. We mean you no harm, and can offer you any aid you might require." He kept his voice low and calming, back twitching as he waited for some wise ass commentary from behind him, but there was none.

"Come out, girl!" Came Lord Garvloch's brusque, though not unkind, command.

Through the heavy branches, a figure took shape in the moonlight, pale and wan as the long hair that went down her back, huddled to her knees as she was, keening low and persistent.

Amstead felt a peculiar unease creep up his spine, but swallowed it down, motioning the other two to move forward slowly as he did the same, putting his sword away and extending a hand. "It's alright, miss, really, we can help you."

"No one . . . can . . . help me." She whimpered, voice stagnate and warbling, gasping as if she was choked up in a cloud of smoke.

"Your voice . . . are you ill? Sick with something?" Henley dared the question, taking a step back. Maybe that was why the village was so quiet, a plague a far faster killer than any highwayman, and a lot harder to fight. He wanted no part of it.

"Sick? Yes . . . sick. My lord husband . . . is _sick_. He needs you . . . He needs _all_ of . . . you." Her voice skipped into a high pitch, as if filled with a macabre glee.

Lord Garvloch's face blanched. "What the hell is the matter with you, girl?" As Amstead moved forward, he grabbed the knight's elbow. "She's clearly mad, don't go near her!" He cautioned in a low breath.

"Nonsense." Amstead scoffed, not willing to be made the coward in front of the other two. The smile was back, though a bit less sincere, as his gloved hand fell to the woman's bony shoulder. His eyes fell to the tattered cloth that encased it, hanging down a back so thin that the bones in her spine visibly raised the ruined dress. She'd been out here a while, must be. "Easy love, just stay calm, and we'll help you and your husband soon after, if you just take us to him . . .." His words were strangled from his throat by the instant horror he felt when she finally turned around.

Bones clicked as the figure rose up, facing the men, the moonlight casting a horrific light through the large hole in her belly, the thin cloth over it doing nothing to obscure the fact that most of her stomach was a gaping maw. A lipless smile drew her grotesque face up high to her eyes, the dripping black skin around that hideous mouth looking like rotten blood as it fell from her chin in a slow awful drip.

"Take you . . . to him? Yes . . . yes I will." The milky white eyes of a corpse widened on the three before the creature, as it panted in labor over its own words.

Lord Henley screamed first, repulsed and terrified by the sight before him. He went to run, as the other two were frozen in horrified shock, but she turned, hissing before her mouth opened impossibly wide, an inhuman shriek issuing forth that sent Henley to the ground, skin showing the red lines of cracked flesh.

"Maker!" He gasped in pain, the wet ground pressed to one cheek as he tried to wiggle around.

Garvloch snarled in anger, finally able to move past the shock in his limbs and ran the thing through with his sword. A victorious smile disappeared when the unearthly woman only turned around, the blade skewering her without effect.

She hissed, Garvloch stumbling back as she moved on him, that awful wail tearing the large man apart, even as he screamed, until his body was broken to pieces by the force of her shriek.

Henley was choking on the ground, too hurt to move, as Amstead shouted in disgust as he was splattered with Garvloch's fresh blood. The crimson painted his blonde hair red, dripping down his face as he turned to run, bravery forgotten in the face of this nameless enemy. _He needed help, he needed_ . . .

The thought was caught up in her scream, and he was thrown to ground as if a mage's conjured fist had pummeled into his back. "No! I have to tell the others!" He yelled, protesting his doom even as it approached.

She knelt on the ground before him, ichor oozed through grey teeth, falling onto his legs as she crawled forward, Garvloch's sword still stuck uselessly through her chest. "You . . . are _not_ . . . pure." She snarled as if angered by the notion, before she opened her mouth, and Amstead looked into the blackness of his own death as it screamed around him like the harshest wind, wailing across the bannorn and tearing him apart.

* * *

A breath in, a breath out, her heart thudding like a war drum, beating violently against her ribs, air wheezing from her lungs with the copper taste of fear and exhaustion. Gwyneth was conscious of nothing more than her own existence, and that of the young boy she was dragging along behind her. The damp of the night air was too calm, the moon too gentle for the horror found around them.

Someone screamed, but she didn't know who it was, not turning to look.

Their desperate flight from the Chantry had been only seconds, but it felt like a life time, fear of the unknown nearly stealing the ability to move, but then she'd seen the boy's 'pale ladies' creatures that had surely come from the depths. Back pressed to that stone wall as she'd looked out in horror to see dozens of them in the village, hunting for something . . . hunting for _them_, and it became clear how Greenfell was emptied so quickly.

"Gwyneth!" Her name through the dark, through the madness, and she turned, when someone took Harold from her, hoisting the lad up on one hip, a long sword in the other hand. Her palm was taken in the firm grasp of her brother, only a moment of relief that pierced her shock and they were running again.

A wail came at them, and Gwyneth was thrown back, falling painfully into an overturned cart. Her head exploded with pain, the world blurring around her. Getting to her feet, her neck felt like it was loose, more belonging to a marionette than to a living human, her limbs attached to the strings of her owner. Finally she moved, sounds and movement nothing but a haze, as if she was in the Fade.

"Fergus!" She screamed, hearing a groan, and panicking. "Where are you?" Nothing answered her, but a wheezing breath and when her vision cleared, the queen fell back to the ground in revulsion. "Maker!"

The emaciated face of the creature turned to look at her, head twitching in the jarring movements of a praying mantis she'd once seen in her mother's garden. Harold lay prone beneath it, the macabre mockery of a woman holding the boy's shirt front, the lad frozen in his fear. The rags it wore draped down as it caressed Harold's face. It seemed content to ignore the woman in its presence, turning away from her to grasp the boy's chin.

"So . . . _pure_. My husband needs . . . your life." It hissed opening that awful black maw, a shimmer of darkness and shadow seeming to pour from its mouth, pulling at the boy's own screaming lips, drawing the air from him as he gasped.

Gwyneth didn't know why the thing ignored her, and she didn't care, trying to stand on her feet. Fergus was rousing where he had fallen, but she was quicker. She stumbled, boots fighting to find an even purchase on the bumpy village road. Her gloved hands reached behind her, reassured by the weight of her short swords, still secured in their sheaths.

She wanted to run, wanted to move quicker than her body would allow. Eyes dimmed, but Gwyneth fought to keep them open, trying to speak as a trail of blood dripped freely from her nose and through her lips. "Get . . . away . . . from him!" She snarled, panting through her ferocity, ignoring everything but Harold and the monstrosity that looked to be draining the life from him.

It hissed, dropping the boy to the ground, neck clicking like old bones when it turned to face her. What was left of its rotted nose sniffed at her, a mouth as black as scorched earth trying to grin. "I smell My Lord . . . upon you . . . smell His . . . favor. You are . . . as _we_ were . . . once, young bride."

The wheezing hollow sound of its voice dragged cold fingers across Gwyneth's soul and she shivered but stood her ground, horrified that it could speak, but bolstered by it in kind. "I don't know what . . . you are." She gasped, forcing the words out of tortured lungs, wincing at how similar to this _thing_ it made her sound. "I don't know who your . . _lord_ is, but you will fall here, I swear it, if you . . . do not let the boy go!"

"You. . . fear for the child?" It laughed, a horrible sound, like the cacophony of a thousand crows, their cawing matched with a chorus of demons. "Do not. His life force . . . will go to the Great Urthemiel . . . He will be remade . . . and he will come to you . . . Then, young bride . . . you will understand."

Gwyneth recoiled, moaning in horror at its hideous words.

It reached for the boy again, but before it could act, Noble ran towards it, leaping at the monster with his jaws open, clamping them tightly into its neck, as spurts of black ichor sprayed, coating his fur. The thing shrieked and bucked, trying to get a hold of the mabari, jaws snapping together as the canine's teeth tore the thing's throat open.

Finally dislodging the mabari, it screamed at him, Gwyneth lunging at the same time, both her and Noble flung back from the force of it. Noble yelped, his body thrown to the road, bleeding.

Gwyneth's vision was blackening, her swords fallen to the ground. Something cracked, but she couldn't even manage to scream in pain. Her ears rang, and when she called for Noble, his name seemed like a strangled whisper, echoing down a long corridor.

Fergus had found his feet, screaming for his sister. Weaving dangerously, he had his blade out, as the creature turned on him, but when it tried to shriek, only a bubble of black fluid oozed from its mouth, running thickly from its open neck and down one flank. It choked on the scream, stumbling back.

They'd tried to fight them off at first, but the boy had been right, they weren't injured by weapons. But maybe Noble had managed to hurt this one, and Fergus was of sound enough mind to take advantage.

"Let's see you scream your way out of _this_, bitch!" He swung his blade, ignoring the painful sensation down his spine, as it threw itself at him, emaciated arms reaching out when it hissed. The blade hit its mark, silverite finding the thing's already damaged neck, and severed it. An unholy wail echoed up from the creature's headless body, as if still connected through whatever essence it possessed, before dissipating into an unnatural mist.

The pain finally sent him to his knees, head swimming, as the teyrn took a deep breath, wincing at the tightness in his lungs. "Gwyn . . . Gwyn . . ." Fergus croaked, crawling across the ground towards his sister.

She was lain over her mabari, cradling him, but her posture was frozen there as if she had died as she was, mistress and mabari together in death. He felt his eyes grow cloudy with tears, reaching out for her. "You can't leave me." One knee gave out and he fell to the dirt beside her. "Gwyn, _please_ . . . I love you! Please, not like this!" The Teyrn of Highever had never begged, too proud to beseech anyone, but he did now, screaming at the Maker, even as his head pounded with stomach wrenching pain.

Someone else was coming, he heard them, the sound ringing in his ears as if far away, though he sensed they weren't. Fergus held his sister, whispering until his voice was too hoarse for even that. The hissing of one of those things came up behind him, but he couldn't be bothered to care. If Gwyneth was gone, the Maker might as well take him too.

"Kill me . . . if you are going to." Death was on his doorstep, and Fergus would greet it with a smile.

It opened its mouth, readying the scream that would break him into pieces as they had done to the others, to his men and the king's. So many gone, in a matter of minutes. He should have never suggested they stop here, never let the king or his sister agree to it. They'd been led here as lambs to the slaughter, and it seemed meaningless. So much fighting, surviving civil war and the Blight, only to find their end in Greenfell.

"Not today, I think!" A voice from the darkness in Fergus' vision, Alistair standing behind the creature, and as it turned, he bashed into it with his shield, the thing snapping at him, and rounding about. "I'm going send you back to the depths you came from!" He bellowed, bashing at it repeatedly, until the thing was dazed.

"You . . . cannot . . . defeat me! I am . . . blessed . . . by My Lord." It snarled, mouth dripping with the rotted fluid inside its body.

Alistair had seen how Fergus had done it, and felt a feral grin forming on his face, leaning back on his heels for a powerful lunge. It went to wail at him, but he plowed his shield into her before she could manage it, and swung his blade around, cutting off her head. The body crumpled before the king's feet, his face splattered with black ichor, but he was smiling madly through it.

"Not so blessed after all, it seems."

A choking noise caught his attention, the boy Harold lain on ground, convulsing with his gasping coughs. Alistair went to him, setting his shield aside as he cradled the boy's head. "Breathe, Harold, take a deep breath." The boy's eyes fell on him, and he smiled, patting his back and helping him sit up.

"She . . . it . . . tried to kill me!" He wailed, gasping for air and taking a deep loud breath when his lungs remembered how to work. "The queen . . . she saved me. Is . . . Is she . . ." The question trailed off as both of them looked for her.

Alistair's smile fell, eyes widening in grieved horror. Both Couslands were unmoving, Fergus cradling his sister as Gwyneth was lain protectively over Noble, their bodies bloodied and deathly still. It was a bittersweet and awful still-life portrait before Alistair's sight, and he fell to his knees beside them, screaming for help, for anyone that was left.

* * *

Sunlight. There was sunlight and the annoying chatter of birds . . . and an awful lump behind her head. Gwyneth reached for it, her unsteady fingers encountering a bandage, wrapped around her skull and down past her jaw, nearly covering one eye. She groaned, trying to move. Everything hurt and her mind felt like she'd just woken up after a night of lotus and heavy drinking.

"Fer . . . Fergus?" She swallowed, her mouth dry, trying to see where she was, eyes cracking open to the canvas of a tent above her. Warmth slid into her palm, strong fingers curling around hers.

"I'm here, Pup." The teyrn's voice was as rough as her own, but clear enough to speak, that it was obvious he'd been awake longer. His lips brushed her knuckles briefly, holding them under his chin, as he smiled grimly at her when she turned her head.

He had a black eye, puffed up and shining purple with tinges of yellow forming in the hollow of his cheek. His forehead had been bandaged much like his sister's, and Fergus was also sporting a thick wrap around his ribs, the teyrn favoring his right side, even as he sat beside the queen.

"Thank the Maker! I thought . . ." Gwyneth was unable to finish, the panicked fear of last night reaching up to seize her lungs once more. A thought hit her . . . _was it even last night_? "How long have we been out?"

"You? About nine hours, myself somewhere around eight. Your husband and Ser Boughton managed to set up a decent camp while we were wandering the Fade. We're somewhere near the Knotwood Hills, safe, for now." He knew she'd want to know all of that, giving her the information before she even asked.

Her memory was coming back, and she sat up like a bolt, regretting it when she was forced to cradle her throbbing head. Fergus waited patiently for her to adjust. "The boy . . . Harold . . . is he . . . is he dead?" She dared to ask, holding her breath until she had the answer.

"No. I wouldn't say he's 'alright' His parents are dead, his brother dead, his whole village wiped out, not to mention the trauma he suffered . . . but he's alive." Fergus grimaced. "That's more than I can say for a lot of them."

Gwyneth sniffed, rubbing at her itchy face, only to wince at the tenderness of a bruise there. She had to look pretty awful, and she almost asked for a mirror, except right then, the queen didn't care to see her reflection. "How many? How many did we lose?"

"Ser Gilmore and Ser William are both dead, in honor, defending the king when we got separated." He looked away, taking a deep breath, shaking his head in resignation. "Of the others, I have four men left, the king has three."

"Seven? Maker!" Gwyneth could barely believe it. "So many . . . so many gone." There would have to be letters of condolences sent, and first thing, a warning given out and passed through the country with all haste. "We have to keep people away from there, tell them . . . I don't even know right now."

"Gwyn . . ." He paused, trying to find the words, feeling her intense stare on him, making it worse. "Noble . . . Noble is gone. There was no saving him from his injuries, he died before Alistair could make camp. He said he tried, but there was nothing to be done."

She screamed, a hand clamped over her mouth before she fell into her brother, fists curled against his chest, beating them there. "No! No, no, no! Please, not my baby, not my Noble!" Her throat tightened as she cried, heart broken and unable to do more than beg for the truth to be different, but it wasn't. "He tried to . . . he tried to save me! He died because of me!"

"No, Gwyn, he loved you. That mabari would have done anything for you, but its not your fault. Those things were . . . I've never come across something like that. We nearly _all_ died. Noble was braver than most men that I know." Fergus consoled her, her body shaking with grief against his own, as he murmured into her hair. He would've rocked her, but his injuries made that impossible. The teyrn had never understood how his sister could love a dog more than she loved most people, but there was no doubt that she had.

"He . . . he was with me, the _whole _time, he got out of Highever with me, we made it through a Blight together. I . . I can't . . . I can't see how my baby is just gone now! He's just _gone_!" She hiccupped through her grief, hot tears making ruddy tracks down her bruised face. "I was holding him . . . I was . . . when we were in Greenfell, after that thing, that _bitch_ fought him off. Do you think . . . he died when I was holding him?"

Fergus stroked her hair, kissing her temple as the other hand rubbed her back. "You can't think about things like that, pup, it'll only make it worse. He knew you loved him, and _he_ loved _you_, and that's what matters."

She was taking gulping breaths, but she'd calmed down, her tears drying on Fergus' shirt. Gwyneth steadied herself, wiping at her face to try and sit up, small sobs hitching her chest until she had collected her senses. "Is . . . Is Noble still in Greenfell?"

"No, I brought him with us, we barely managed to get out of there, but I took the risk. I knew that you'd want to bury him. Ser Boughton wrapped him up in one of his own blankets." Alistair's voice came from the open tent flap, neither Cousland hearing him until he spoke. He dipped his head, almost looking shy as he caught Fergus' gaze. "I'm sorry to interrupt, I heard Gwyneth and wanted to check on her."

The teyrn looked to his sister, as she nodded mutely, he cleared his throat, getting to his feet. "Well, I'm going to get some water, speak with my men." He paused at the tent flap, turning his head a fraction of an inch. "And Alistair . . ."

Shocked by the familiarity of his name, the king only raised a brow, not sure what was coming.

"About Greenfell, getting us out of there . . ." Fergus took a deep breath, gratitude difficult for him. "Thank you, I owe you our lives."

Alistair gave a mute nod. "I'm only sorry more of us didn't make it."

Fergus rubbed his jaw, flinching before he left the tent. "So am I."

It was silent, even the sounds of scant activity outside didn't seem to reach the tent's interior. Alistair sat down in Fergus' vacated spot, grimacing at the soreness in his own legs, settling back until he was moderately comfortable. He watched Gwyneth, her back turned on him as she was slouched over, curls battened down under the bandage. She made an awful sight, but was far better to look at alive, than dead.

There was a surreal quality to that moment, sitting there and taking it all in, it was almost impossible to believe they'd ever gone to Greenfell, but they had. He cleared his throat, not sure what to say, but Gwyneth filled the breach.

"Fergus is right, we owe you our lives. You have _my_ thanks as well . . . and for . . . and for bringing Noble back." She choked on the last words, taking a shuddering lungful of air, holding a hand to her ribs.

Alistair's voice was dim and sad. "Gwyn, I'm . . . I'm _so_ sorry."

She sniffled, nodding and when he moved to sit behind her, she didn't protest his arms around her waist, face against her back. One of her own hands moved to curl over his knuckles. They sat like that for a good long while, before she spoke, her voice vibrating through her ribs, against Alistair's ear.

"We have to warn people away from there, before we do anything else."

He smiled, sitting up. "You get knocked around, and your mind's still sharp." But she was right and it was nothing to be pleased over. "I actually already wrote up a notice, once I knew you were in the clear. Have to thank Ser Boughton for that, field medicine is no replacement for having Wynne with us, but it saved your life, I think." When she only nodded, he went on. "Anyway, I'm going to have couriers send it out after copies are made, as soon as we hit the next village. I just . . . I don't even know what to call those things. 'Pale ladies' isn't really all that informative."

"I know what they are, at least, I _think_ I know." She murmured, unable to see the surprise on her husband's face. "Aldous, I told you about him, he instructed Fergus and I. He used to have all these stories about the old gods, crazy stories, and I didn't think half of them were true . . . but, the way those things looked, and sounded . . ." Gwyneth closed her eyes, their awful image burned behind her lids, and the words that one had spoken, words that chilled Gwyneth down to her bones.

She tried to recall all that Aldous had said, pausing to gather her memories. "The Avaars believed that women had strong spirits, and when a woman died in suffering her spirit would return to Thedas, her wails of sorrow meant to warn others of befalling a similar fate."

Alistair blinked, a bit familiar with a similar story that he'd read during his studies as a Templar, reading about old religions was a means of learning how the Maker was supposedly so much better. "They sound creepy, but not dangerous, not like those things we encountered."

"Well, no, not at first, but Aldous said that when the Old Gods went to war against the Maker, some of them took human women as . . . as brides, to try and replenish their own kind. I don't know if it worked or not, but the Avaars warn that these 'brides' were sacrifices, that they died, maybe in childbirth? I have no idea. To be honest I was pretty sure it was bullshit." She snorted, wishing she still felt that way. "But when these women came back from death, the Old Gods had changed them, no longer making benevolent spirits of them, but these wailing women whose screams of agony upon their death were so severe that they could break a mortal into pieces. The few images I'd seen were worn, it was a pretty old tome, but, they looked a _lot _like those ghoulish things in Greenfell. It warned that only the Maker's song could stave them off."

Alistair wrinkled his brow, thinking of the Tenets of Faith, though that wasn't really a song. "The Maker's song? I don't . . ." Then it struck him, his mouth pulled up in realization. "Chantry bells."

"Chantry bells, indeed." Gwyneth nodded in affirmation. "You heard what young Harold said about how they didn't like ringing noises, and the way they killed people, the way they killed my . . ." She sniffled, trying not to think of Noble long enough that she could get through her own speech. "It _sounds_ like the same thing. The old tribes called these creatures . . . banshees."

"Banshees? Maker's breath! I can't even . . . where did they come from? Why now? Why hasn't anyone seen them in such a long time?" Alistair ran a hand through his hair. "They _can _be killed, I know that, but only by cutting their head off. I don't even know if I should put that in a warning or just tell people to stay as far away from Greenfell as they can. The place is nothing but a graveyard now."

Gwyneth couldn't say anymore than that, unable to make herself talk about the words that awful thing had garbled at her. Things that hinted at what she had long been afraid of. Ever since that presence of terrible beauty had spoken to her in the Fade, golden eyes full of threats and promises.

There was no 'essence' preserved in the body of a child, there was no innocence given the power of an Old God growing in Morrigan's womb. The ritual performed on the eve before that last battle was a success, but not in the way Morrigan had planned, the way Alistair and Gwyneth had agreed to.

Urthemiel, the god Himself, was coming back, and neither the king or queen would be able to escape the consequences of what they'd done.


	55. Chapter 55: Ever Onward

**Disclaimer:** _"Dragon Age: Origins" and all its expansions and additional content is the property of Bioware and EA Games. Large portions of written content within the game, as well as Dragon's Age: The Stolen Throne, and Dragon's Age: Calling, are the creation of David Gaider. Original scenarios and characters are used under the creative license of the writer, ItalianEmpress1985. No profit is being made and the following story is for entertainment purposes only._

**Words From The Author:**_ I haven't updated in over a month! Shame on me! I really didn't realize it had been so long. I'm in the process of readying a move halfway across the country, and it's a bit . . taxing, to say the least, but my utmost apologies dear readers. I know how antsy I get for a story I enjoy to get updated, and I don't want to be the cause of that antsy feelings in others._

_But if anyone is concerned I've lost focus or passion for this story, I absolutely have not. Though writing Gwyneth down in the doldrums isn't quite as fun as writing her when she's a bitch, but she goes through the motions, just like everyone else. Though she'd never admit it, the snot. _

_Thank you for stopping in. Watch out for low flying dragons!_

* * *

_**Chapter Fifty Five:**_

_**Ever Onward**_

* * *

_I won't be made useless._

_Won't be idle in despair._

_- __Jewel_

* * *

_**June 18'th, 9:31, Dragon Age**_

**S**he sat, humming beneath her breath and sewing without pause, fingers working lovingly at stitches made to the burial sack that held her darling mabari. Daylight suggested a lively day, but beneath that sun, the Queen of Ferelden was less than so. Gwyneth's liveliness was non-existent since she'd hobbled out of her tent, leaning heavily on Alistair's arm and favoring her wounded head and an ankle so wrenched and bruised it was a wonder it wasn't broken. The matter of banshees and what little she knew of them, had been the last length of words the queen had spoken, what scant offerings passed her lips after that, were barely sentences at all, the last a demand for a spare burlap tarp, and to be left in peace with Noble.

No one went near the queen, or interrupted, not daring to from embarrassment or the fear of reaction it would garner. Even her brother kept his distance, having gathered what was left of his men, finding his own peace in the chaos by way of bending his mind around what to do next. Plans it seemed, were not to be very altered.

Fergus refused the use of a cane, though his new captain, a Lord Vartel, offered to carve one from willow wood. The teyrn imagined he could as well, the minor noble born of a line of ancient craftsmen who had carved so skillfully as to defy the title of wood _carver_, to become, as his father had coined them, wood _smiths. _ Even so, Fergus wouldn't use a cane, he'd stand tall and swallow his injuries down like a man, to show those under his rule, that the same strength was expected of _them_, in both ability and character. Men of the coast had to have a fortitude to match the land they called home, or risk being swept out to the Waking Sea by an ill tempered summer storm, and summer was indeed upon them.

The Teyrn of Highever sighed, watching the king pace about, discussing something with the newly named First Knight, the same Ser Boughton that had tended to his own injuries and that of his sister. For that, Fergus owed him thanks, and to the king as he'd already offered, but he knew that wasn't the end of it. He had to talk to his brother by marriage, and find a way to accept him as such, because Gwyneth was right. Done was done, and the matter wasn't very likely to be changed simply because of Fergus' displeasure.

Solutions weren't found in standing about with your thumb up your ass, and the Cousland heir had never been one to do so, always raring to go like an unbroken horse at the bit. He cleared his throat as he drew near, catching the king's attention and motioning him over. There'd be some effort made to find at least a _fledgling_ manner of accord between them, but Fergus wouldn't let on so easily. Alistair would have to work for it.

"He seems to be taking things well enough, your new First." That dark red head made a nod in Boughton's direction as the knight knelt before the young Harold, passing him a steaming mug.

"Gwyneth's tea. She always said chamomile tea was best for a heavy heart. I would have asked her first, but to be honest, I don't think she's in the mood to talk about much of anything." Alistair's voice was somber, as low as Fergus had yet heard it, and the teyrn wondered at that, in that there was no victory or the pride that came with it to be heard in the king's tone. He had come out alive, after all, and to fair degree was Gwyneth's _hero_. Fergus scoffed at that, but there was no such pride to be found, only the same melancholia that seeped into their makeshift camp like water into a leaking boat. Alistair's eyes stared at the queen as if trying to decipher a very difficult puzzle, and Fergus doubted it was the first time his sister had made her husband guess at her mood. She was good at that.

"There'll be no talking to her for awhile now, at least not until she's done with his burial shroud." The teyrn offered, following the same gaze as the king.

"She wants to keep him preserved, we have some tinctures for that in our supplies, Maker be blessed for small favors, that we at least got that wagon out of Greenfell. We bring it in case any of my knights fall on the field, so they can be buried with their families, thought it won't last much past a fortnight." Alistair took a deep steadying breath. "The men I lost in Greenfell . . . I wish I could go back for _their _bodies."

Fergus understood, even if he knew it to be a foolhardy desire. "Your men and mine both served Ferelden with honor, but their bodies have to remain where they lie. To do anything else right now would put the rest of us at risk."

Alistair nodded, brushing a hand through his hair, the lengthening strands looking bright red-gold in the sun. "I know. I know that, but I still wish it was different."

"Everyone does, but my father often said that if wishes were coin we'd all be wealthier than the Empress of Orlais." The repetition came so easily to Fergus' lips, it was as if Bryce Cousland had only just said it.

Alistair bit back on the retort that Fergus was a fine one to say something like that, considering his family was the wealthiest in the country. Then he remembered that it might not be so anymore, after Rendon Howe ordered the sacking of the other man's home.

"What is to be done, the _only_ thing to be done, is to go forward with what we _do _have. The Couslands have ever been that way, moving past what defeats life hands to us, to maintain the high ground at whatever cost, to always push forward when lesser men would wait behind for more comfortable days." He narrowed his eyes at the king beside him. "It's a philosophy _you'd_ do well to adopt, if you want to _keep_ your crown."

Alistair's eyes widened in outraged shock, the numbness of his emotions giving way to anger, that Fergus would pick a fight with him again, now of all times. "Are you going to _really_ threaten me? After what we've just been through? Your whole family is mad!"

"You bite your tongue on that, you don't know my family worth a tit!" Fergus snapped, snorting through his nose, before he reined his temper back in. "My family has made the most sense of any one in this country, it's why we are the oldest line still living. With that said, you misunderstand me. That was no threat, but rather advice to keep the _true _threats at bay. You can't let your failure sour you, even Gwyneth for her grieving knows that. A man pushes forward through the sorrow, or he lets it drag him behind where it will kill him as swift as any sword." His face darkened, stiff with his own grief as Alistair watched him.

"I wish my boy was still living, I'd give my _life_ for that. To see his happy face again, arms open to hug me as he always did. He'd have made a strong Cousland man, sure as the sun he would've, but Howe stole him from me. One of his rat bastard men ran my boy through, Gwyneth managed to tell me that much through her tears. My wife laying there dead beside him, my parents sacrificed soon after to buy my sister time enough to leave." Eyes stung in their sockets like smoke was blowing in Fergus' face, but he sniffed, squeezing them shut before he gathered himself together. "When I went back, most of Castle Cousland was burned, only the stone remained, and I couldn't find the bodies of any of my family, not even my little boy. _My own blood_, and their burial was no better than the rodents in the pantry that burned in the fire. You can bet your ass that I wish it was different, I wish so fervently that I can't sleep at night for the visions of them, haunting the inside of my eyelids."

Alistair looked away, feeling ashamed over his last words, and humbled beside Fergus' sorrow. He could think of nothing to say to that, but Fergus filled the breach for him.

"But I can't change what has already come to pass. Not by prayers, or blood. What I _can _do, is go on, take charge of the life that fate has shaped for me. Because my people are counting on me, my _sister_ is counting on me, and Arl Wulff is waiting in Highever for news of Howe's leftovers. I have to move forward, and so do _you_." His words were weighted but steady, and he leveled his gaze at the king. When he said nothing, Fergus knew he'd gotten to him and let the subject of their talk go elsewhere. He nodded towards Gwyneth, watching as she continued to sew. "She'll be wanting to bury him at home. So you can stop looking at her as if your gaze alone will change her mind." Fergus' breath was low and clipped, turning to the silent, staring king beside him. Despite his words about moving past grief, it seemed clear that he wasn't going to press his sister until she was ready.

"I wasn't looking at her." Alistair's rebuke was too quick to be genuine, and he turned away, gesturing to the small boy, Harold, petting the sheep that had miraculously made it out of Greenfell, tucked away safely in the wagon until they'd let it out to chew on the grass. The boy held out tufts of the long yellow-green blades, the pink mouth of the sheep opening to take them away. "He's a brave boy. Ser Boughton told me he doesn't have any other family, or at least none that he knows about." Alistair's strongest suit might not have been artfully changing the subject, but the honesty in his statement made it easier.

"Mmm." Fergus rubbed at his chin in thought, nodding. "Yes. I'm at a loss with what to do with him, but I'll think of something."

Alistair felt irritation creep up his spine. "Who said _you_ were the one to decide?"

"And what? _You_ have plans all laid out?" Fergus arched a brow. "You'll forgive me if I say I rather doubt it." He sniffed, eyes going from narrow to wide, as the king let out a huff of laughter. "What could possibly be so funny?"

"Sorry, it's just that . . . sometimes you sound so much like _her_ . . ." One long finger pointed in Gwyneth's direction, until Alistair sobered, not sure if he really found it that funny. Mostly it was just that the morning felt so unreal for the life threatening situation they'd only just managed to get out of, that he was struggling to find mirth in anything readily available. "I don't know whether to laugh or get the cold gruesomes."

Fergus sighed with the air of long suffering. "She _is _my _sister_, you know. We were raised together by the same people. I don't see how it's that strange that we're a bit similar." He shrugged with one shoulder, trying to spare the tenderness in the other, but from his slight grimace, the young teyrn wasn't so successful. "We weren't always like this." Silently musings escaped of their own volition, a faint smile of both warm memory and recent melancholy pulled at his upper lip. "There was a time that we both wanted to be quite unique from one another, to impress my father, or impress _each other_, I'm not sure which. But things are . . . they're different now, and being unique doesn't matter nearly so much as my family, and Gwyneth is the only one I have left. I suppose it has made me realize how much I love my sister, and it reminds me of what is really important. Our lives can't be taken for granted when fate is waiting with quill in hand, to write our names in the Book of the Dead."

What prompted the teyrn to share any personal anecdotes, Alistair couldn't guess, but he knew he wasn't going to press his luck, merely nodding. "We had a time of it in Greenfell, that's for certain. I'm still not sure what to have written in those warnings. Gwyneth told me she thinks those . . . _women _. . . are _banshees_. How can I write something down like that and expect people to take it seriously?" It was more a rhetorical question than anything, and he wasn't expecting an answer.

So of course, Fergus Cousland surprised Alistair by giving him one.

"Don't say anything about banshees, perhaps later, as your people demand to know what they're dealing with, but it's best to remain vague at first. Say simply 'creatures of unknown origin' or something equally nebulous and let the fear work its way in. You'll find people are often far more afraid of what they _don't _know, and their mind will invent enough awful images to keep them scared. You _want _them scared, Alistair, so they'll take your warnings to heart. Though of course there's always going to be some fool, or several, who want to prove their bravery or sate their curiosity, sometimes both, but for the most part, people will listen to their own fear of the unknown."

The king blinked, taking it all in, brown eyes bright on the face of the brother by marriage that, until just now, would have barely given Alistair any recognition as a leader, let alone offer advice on how to do it. "You haven't even been a teyrn for three months, how'd you get that all sorted out?"

Fergus lips curved upwards in a smirk of superiority. "I _am_ the firstborn son of the greatest orator this country has known, and I'm not exactly a slouch in the realm of speech craft, myself. Or did you think personality and looks were all we Couslands shared?"

Alistair shook his head in self-humor. "No, I guess I didn't."

Fergus took a hold of his arm, making to lead the king away. "Come, we do Gwyneth a disservice by watching her. This time is her own, hers and Noble's. You won't get much from her anyway until she's done, and we have plans to make for when we arrive at Highever."

* * *

Her whole body ached as if in protest, and her heart along with it, heavy with the weight of hopelessness, frame taught as she stared at the shroud over her dearest companion, a mabari that had become more her child than a mere canine.

The day was drawing on and they'd have to leave soon. "We're going home, Noble." Gwyneth knelt down, stroking a hand over where Noble's head was covered. It'd been some number of hours, she knew, and there was no rest for the heart of a noblewoman, even when it was broken. When she heard boots moving over the trampled grass behind her, a sigh of acceptance escaped. She knew who it was even before he spoke. "It's time, isn't it?"

"Yes, pup, I'm afraid so. I'll have my men place Noble in the wagon for you, they'll be gentle." Fergus got on his knees beside her, wrapping a firm arm across his sister's shoulders. "I already told your husband that you will want to take him to Highever. No one is going to question that."

Gwyneth sniffed, turning to grace her brother with a loving smile. "I'd be angry with anyone else assuming my mind, but _you _. . . you sometimes know me before I've even come to know _myself_." She leaned into him, taking the handkerchief he offered to dab at her face. "Do I look a fright?"

"You are loveliest woman in all Thedas, but even such a woman can't be perfect after the night we had. Chin up, sweet, nothing is permanently broken, and once we've that bandage off your head, you'll be back to being the diamond of Highever." Fergus knew reassurances concerning his sister's beauty would always make her feel better, though with Noble gone and their company in such ruin, it was a cursory improvement of Gwyneth's mood at best, but at least it _was_ an improvement. "Here, you lean on me and they'll barely notice your limp."

Gwyneth tried to smile, to find humor in something, anything. "Haven't I leaned upon you enough? One should think you'd grow tired of it."

Fergus rubbed a thumb across one of her cheekbones, making her look at him. "Never."

"Liar." Her lips made the attempt to smile again, only drawing back down when her eyes fell back to her mabari. "At least _he_ can go home. Ser Gilmore . . . Fergus, his father shall be _so_ upset. To leave him there, in that village, with those . . . those _things_!"

"He died defending us, doing his duty as he's always done. Father instilled all the best qualities in Roland." Fergus helped Gwyneth to her feet, watching her face to notice that his words hadn't swayed her.

"I kissed him you know, when he helped Mother and I get out of the Great Hall. Howe's men swarming against the doors, and Gilmore was there, standing as the last line of defense with the few guardsmen we had left that weren't slaughtered during the initial attack." Her mind took her back there, the smell of smoke from burning flesh and wood.

"You did _what_? Gwyn, why would you kiss him? You weren't . . ." He trailed off, looking wary and confused.

"No, nothing like you're thinking. I thought he was going to die, a noble death that his father and mine would both be proud of, and there was nothing to thank him with, nothing I had in that moment as a token. So I kissed him." She smiled wanly. "Later, when he survived, I was concerned he'd make some affair of it and leave me in quite the awkward position. He never said a thing, not once." Gwyneth shook her head, wincing and hissing through her teeth and the unexpected pain that caused. Fergus looked worried, but she waved him off. "And now, Ser Gilmore _is_ dead, and there was no token _this _time, and we can't even give him a proper burial. To survive against all odds, only to be killed in _Greenfell_ by bloody _banshees_, just like my sweet Noble . . ." She sobbed into her palm, accepting her brother's arms about her. "It seems so useless, a waste."

Maybe Alistair's own thinking had gotten to her. "Gwyny-Gwyn, we can't go back, not even for brave Gilmore. It's far too dangerous."

She nodded, closing her eyes as they threatened her with tears again. "No. No we can't, but it feels so . . ." A voice fraught with grief and weariness rose several octaves in an anger that was entirely Gwyneth. "Damn those fucking banshees! I want them slaughtered, the whole lot of them! They took my Noble and I want them to suffer, as I've suffered! Our entire company nearly wiped out, and all we went to Greenfell for was supplies, a hot meal, and some sleep, and we all could've been killed!"

"But, _we're_ still here Gwyn, not everyone is lost. You have to take comfort in that, you must gird yourself against this. I know you can and whatever you need to help you, tell me, and I'll see it done." He murmured against the bandage on her head, holding it gently against his shoulder.

Gwyneth smirked, lifting her face to him. "You are being quite solicitous Fergus, highly unlike you. I seem to recall how easily we angered each other before. I must have truly looked as if I was dying to make you _this_ nice."

"Or maybe I just realized how much I loved you, when faced with losing the last family I have left." The teyrn's voice had a great quality for delivering speeches, the posh lilt with the deep tonality of leadership, and when he got serious, that was never more obvious.

But Gwyneth had long ago become accustomed to the gravitas of Cousland males, her own affectations making her uniquely immune to falling under the spell her brother's voice could weave, just as he was immune to her own vocal mystique. Though now, she sounded nothing more than morose, an accurate representation of how she was feeling. "Yes, and that's more than many have." Her eyes sought out the young boy from Greenfell, the only child they'd been able to find. "Master Harold, what are we going to do with that lad?"

"Your king asked me the same question, though he didn't much care for my reassurance that I'd think of something."

Gwyneth couldn't help the grin on her face, making it past her mood. "He does get rather put out when a Cousland assumes control, though he wasn't always like that, believe me. Now, though, Alistair's gotten a taste for leadership, and he'll not be letting it go without a quibble, at the very least."

"Your doing, dear sister? Shaping our nascent king?"

"Of course, to a degree, it was the main objective of this marriage initially, my influence in both name and my ability to bring out the strongest traits in my allies. But some of it was his _own_ ability, he just needed to stop struggling against that Theirin blood. Calenhad's influence in his veins was buried for quite a while."

Fergus' eyes narrowed shrewdly, but not unkindly. "You like him, don't you? He's your friend."

Gwyneth sighed. "He _was_. For a time." She tilted her head, watching the object of their discussion as he helped what knights he had left, his blonde hair lit brightly under the mid-afternoon sun. "Not really so much anymore, but then, I suppose that was to be expected. Marriage is more of a burden than a blessing, especially at our level of nobility, but he and I have entered into an agreement of sorts. For a . . ." She paused, thinking of how to phrase it. "A cessation of hostilities to find the benefit of an amicable partnership by way of giving one another time to find how we'd better like to interact."

Fergus laughed, boldly albeit painfully, a hand at his ribs soon after. When Gwyneth glared at him, he had to fight even harder not to chuckle. "Oh, Gwyn, only _you_ would make a marriage bed into a political agreement. 'A cessation of hostilities' with your own _husband_?" He barked again, silver eyes watering in a mirth quite refreshing for its honesty. "Priceless, pup, you are absolutely priceless."

Gwyneth huffed. "My marriage _is _political, and it requires a . . . shall we say, delicate touch? At least I'm trying, if Anora was in my place instead, she'd have taken the reins away from Alistair right at the start, and many would say she would have been right in doing so. It was no secret that we bore no love each other, she and I, but I'll give her this much, she was damn good with quill and parchment, a brilliant mind for sneaky trade agreements, to be sure and many of the common people adored her for both her prowess and her more simple roots. To them, they'd have seen my husband as an upstart. Alistair Theirin, Maric's by-blow, untested and unfit for the throne. The people would have admired him as a hero, but not as a king, and Ferelden would not have seen all that he can do."

Fergus tried to sound unimpressed, but Gwyneth had a way of making her point of view sound as appealing as a dip in a cool pond on a hot day, and it was difficult not to react. "Or are you just saying that because he saved your life?"

"_Our_ lives, he saved us all. A hundred years from now, children will read stories of the great hero, Alistair the Dragon King of Ferelden. He'll be taller, his hair color will change a hundred times, and I'll be reduced to his pretty trophy wife, but they'll remember his deeds."

It was Fergus' turn to scoff. "Bah. I think you underestimate your value in these tales. I think you'll be the fearsome beauty, whose very gaze could set a man on fire, and with a flick of your wrist even the mountains would bend beneath your unshakeable resolve. Your eyes, they'll stay the same, sharp and eerie silver, like the Thorns of Dead Gods you wield with a vicious intent. They'll never know you trip over your own feet on the battlefield and cringe when there's blood in your hair. Though there might be a note or two on your fancy for Tevinter gowns and raspberry tortes." He grinned when he saw Gwyneth fight her amusement at his teasing, trying to look dour, but then, he sobered. "You saved Master Harold, that thing would've gotten him for certain if you hadn't intervened, and that's no fairytale."

"For all the good it did. Look at him? Poor lamb." She tutted beneath her breath.

"I think he'll be alright, I truly do."

Gwyneth smiled, knowingly. "You have a plan after all, don't you?"

"Don't I always?" Fergus' grin thinned out. "Father wouldn't have approved, but I think . . . I should like to squire him at Highever, take him away from his old life. All that's left in Greenfell is death, and he shouldn't enter into young adulthood with that black shadow nipping at his heels."

Gwyneth's eyes went wide with shock. "But . . . Father always said that to squire those of less than noble birth led to untrustworthy men at arms. He was very adamant about it and look at the results."

"Yes, look at what his trust bought him, his own death!" Fergus snapped, eyes darkening. "I am hardly going to be singing the praises of peasants made into nobility. Maric tried that with Loghain, and Ferelden wasn't better off for it, but this . . . this is different. Gwyneth, you must see that this is the best thing for that boy, at his age, being raised under a Cousland banner could shape him into a better man than he'd ever have been otherwise." More quietly, he continued. "And no one need know that he was common, we could say he was the last surviving son of the mayor of Greenfell. Who with us would argue that? Your husband, his knights, my men . . . _you_? The people accept what truth we shape for them, if we're skillful enough at it, and we convince young Harold of this. Do you truly think he'd object so strenuously? What else does he have, Gwyn?"

She bit her lip, looking once more to Noble and shuttering her eyes against the sight. "Helping him won't revive the dead, you know. I thought . . . I thought it would. I told myself that if I could save him, this _one_ boy, that it wouldn't hurt as much that I wasn't able to help your son, my poor, sweet Oren." She choked on a sob, teeth stinging the flesh of her mouth. "It _didn't_ help."

"No." Fergus turned away from his sister, to watch the boy. "But it doesn't make it worse either."

"Alright, Fergus, alright." She sighed into her acceptance, nodding mutely, staring at Noble as two of her brother's remaining men bowed to her, moving past to gently pick up her mabari. Gwyneth had thought her tears were gone, but she felt them building at the corners. "I'll see to his appearance, see that he's bathed and get him some proper attire when we get to the next outpost."

"Gwyn, you don't have to do that. You're a queen, we can hire on a serving maid at the next stop before we reach Diets."

But she'd have none of it. "No, I want to do this, Fergus, I _need_ to. There must be something to occupy my mind, or I'll fall apart and my people need me at my very best. We'll all arrive in Highever without anyone knowing what we've been through, how tired we are. If a squire of Highever he is to be, than he shall look the part of one. Truth is what we make, you are right in that, and appearance is what keeps everything together."

Inside she was hurting, inside she was frightened, but outwardly Gwyneth would insure she was everything a queen should be, and the citizens of Highever would greet their wayward daughter without ever knowing anything was amiss.

* * *

The sun felt too hot, peeking through the thickened trees like a great flame trying to lick at her flesh, burning her alive.

A fever had hit suddenly in the night, the beast inside her clawing at her mind and innards in kind, screaming within her womb like the unnatural being it was. Long fingers clutched at her swollen belly, and she hunched over in pain, even the moss covered bark of the tree next to her feeling excruciating when it touched her sweating, taut skin.

It was far too soon, she knew that, had made every preparation necessary and absorbed as much knowledge from her mother's mad scrawl as she could, but it wasn't enough. Because she'd been prepared for the wrong thing. It was suppose to be the body of a human babe growing within her, only possessing the essence of the powerful archdemon, but something went wrong.

She'd gone over it a hundred times in her mind, but the mage could find no fault in the ritual itself. '_Perhaps twas the wording that was off, perhaps twas that fool Alistair, something wrong with his seed_.' But no, the monster inside her hissed within her mind, biting at it with unnatural words, teasing her foolishness, her arrogance.

_'Did you never consider, vessel of mine, that you never knew what you were doing to begin with?' _His voice, beset with the rolling laughter of the ethereal, like a thunderclap across her senses.

That he could speak, that he could interact in such a way, and use her to reach out to . . .

Morrigan stopped, refusing to think of her dearest Gwyneth anymore. That had been her fault, to yearn for the woman, to miss her, and Urthemiel had latched on to that, used it to go after the object of his terrible interest.

It was too late for her, she knew that, had fought against it so adamantly that the clarity that all her fighting meant nothing, was sharp and brutal. Her hands clasped her belly, and she smiled through the pain.

"Not yet, foul one. You may think you have won, but I shall see to it that she knows, that she is ready for you. Do not think me so helpless in that, false god."

The angry hiss from her womb stabbed up into her ribs, but Morrigan only laughed. "Bellow if you must, beast, but all your planning will be for naught, because she is going to kill you, your would be bride. I shall be watching from the Fade and I will smile at your failure."

Urthemiel roiled within the skin of the babe he had stolen, sucked away its essence for his own use, settling inside it and making it grow abnormally fast. A quickening of godhood that would prove a difficulty for him. Morrigan knew this as she knew everything else. They shared a life-force, and Urthemiel could hide nothing from her even as _she_ could hide nothing from _him_.

_'You have to get to her first, insolent whore, and do you think she can aid you? Some little mortal? I'll have her womb for my needs, just as I now have yours, and she will give me an heir, a conduit for my power and your pitiful existence will have only mattered for the entrance it provided for my initial form.' _He threatened, hateful laughter bubbling up from where his thoughts sat, seeded inside her own. _'Do you think to tell her that you_ loved _her, but you could not think what to do with such emotion? That you were ashamed to feel that way, for another woman? Do you think she'll still love _you_, that she'll _save_ you?'_ He cooed in mock sympathy, cruelty in his intentions.

In her worst moments, Morrigan had thought to cut him from her belly, but he'd kept her from any such action, a strength over her movements that made her more angry than frightened. That he'd dare to control her as if she were a puppet. Yet, still, she would make up for the mistakes made during the ritual that had led to this, and the god that thought himself so mighty, would pay for daring to climb so high, and take so much.

"I will get to her, I will tell her everything. My will is stronger than yours, dark one, and you cannot stop me, and even when I am gone, my intent will still live. It will be hers and she will _destroy_ you." The mage gritted through her teeth, rime forming above her upper lip, sweat matting her ebony hair to her skull, dripping down her face.

Urthemiel's 'birth' would be soon, and she had to hurry. Already Morrigan felt the veins across her stomach swelling with the effort her skin made, to keep from splitting open.

'_You are going to die, a painful, agonizing death_.' The ancient god mocked.

Morrigan grinned, trudging forward and leaning heavily on her staff. "Yes, but so are _you_."


	56. Chapter 56: Legacy of Laurel

**Disclaimer:** _"Dragon Age: Origins" and all its expansions and additional content is the property of Bioware and EA Games. Large portions of written content within the game, as well as Dragon's Age: The Stolen Throne, and Dragon's Age: Calling, are the creation of David Gaider. Original scenarios and characters are used under the creative license of the writer, ItalianEmpress1985. No profit is being made and the following story is for entertainment purposes only._

**Words From The Author:**_ My apologies, dear readers, for the abysmal waiting time between chapters. I went through a move, and then when the dust cleared from that, found that my love life had fallen victim to the curse known as infidelity. Also, time consuming, I'm left in the position of 'another' move. Then I had to have all four wisdom teeth removed, and that was giving me some trouble. So my mood was a bit too black to do much writing. It also put me in the frame of mind of Gwyneth's 'romance is bullshit' and silently seething against Gwyneth herself for doing something similar to poor Anora. So, I knew I had to recover from that in order to write again. It's no good writing when your perspective has been skewed, I needed to be able to get into the heads of ALL the characters again. Plus, writing while medicated turned out to NOT be a good idea . . . who knew? :p_

_It did give me the opportunity to go back to the earlier chapters and do a bit of tidying, fixing of some continuity errors (age and such). So I'm slowly working my way through the story from the beginning now, while continuing ahead with the new chapters. So if you go back for a re-read, you might find some differences._

_Bit of information in this author's note that makes it longer than the others, so sorry for that. I've actually cut back from the original note, though. :p_

_A TON of inspiration for this chapter, both in the appearance of Highever/Castle Cousland (which we'll get to more in the next chapter) and musical inspiration as always. Links to all musical and image inspiration has been linked in my profile, again you have to copy paste the links in your browser, for now at least. Unless they fixed it while I wasn't paying attention. I also did some research about the earliest versions of 'machinery' that would have 'just' started being used during the late Tudor/ early Renaissance age, where a lot of inventions came about, so any machinery you see mentioned isn't what you're used to seeing in this day and age._

_In addition! __**Gwyneth's voice! **__:D We know what most of the other's sound like, from their parts in the game, but Gwyneth's voice was only in my head until now. It's long been taking its cues from Emilia Fox, the actress who played the sorceress Morgause on BBC's 'Merlin' but I thought I'd share it with you all, so you might hear Gwyneth as I hear her during the next bit of dialogue she has. That, of course has also been linked in my profile and the bloke she shares a scene with sounds a LOT like Nathaniel Howe, as well, which is quite nice, (he even has the big nose) though I think Nate is braver than poor Cenred. :p_

_You might have also noticed a new subtitle next to the story name. I've gone ahead with my plan some time ago, to separate the story into three parts, though not for convenience sake really, but because each section has its own climax and with the story being as long as it is, I decided it'd be nice to have those three parts. But they will all be titled Fate and Forbearance with the part title next to it, so easy to find. I hope. Anyway, we haven't come up on that yet, but we will eventually. Both the closing 'scene' for Part One and the opening 'scene' for Part Two is quite chilling, if I do say so myself, so I already have that planned out, so no fear, I haven't lost any ambition, just a bit of steam during the wee life crisis I had._

_There's also a bigger look see at the story cover art. I made it with stock footage and my shoddy skills with MS Paint, so no guarantees on quality :P but if you 'do' want to see it, I've put up a link for that as well, listed as always, under extras in my profile. Internet cookies for those that know what plant is in the image, though if you are consistent readers of FnF, I'm sure you all would know anyway. ;)_

_And as a last tidbit, if you see the Coastland's Brogue referred to here, it's a slight Scottish undertone to the speech that some of the people of that region still carry. I always imagined their ancestors to have some Scottish influence. Highlands - Highever - Coastlands? Maybe. ;)_

_Thank you for stopping in. Watch out for low flying dragons!_

* * *

_**Chapter Fifty Six:**_

_**Legacy of Laurel**_

* * *

_If we are true to plan,_

_our statures touch the skies._

_- Emily Dickinson_

* * *

_**June 21'st, 9:31, Dragon Age**_

**T**hey were a day's travel from Highever, having turned at a fork in their path that led away from the Laurel Faireway, both Couslands glancing longingly down the road that they dared not to go, lest the bridge was still out. Alistair could recall how they had been, nearly forlorn as they headed down the Branson Road instead. They'd still get to Highever. Teyrn Fergus had assured their party of that, by way of the lower coastal route through Deits, but it was clear that wasn't the preference.

"I should have so liked to have seen it again." Gwyneth lamented, her face sallow for the wearied sorrow that had dragged the light from her skin. The wounds had healed well those past three days, so well in fact that Alistair had grown suspicious she was using her culcae cream again, but he hadn't dared to ask and while brave enough to search some of her things when she was asleep, had found none. Yet, even for the return of her good looks, her smiles had become more false than ever they had been before, mouth tight and stern as the queen tried not to look back at the covered wagon where her mabari's body was lain, preserved with oils beneath a tarp.

"Seen what?" Alistair dared, if only in the hopes that there would be some excitement left in her. He wouldn't have thought he'd find himself in a position of goading conversation from Gwyneth, a lady full of more bold talk and speeches than the entire Bannorn on a rowdy day, but there he was, all the same.

Faint was the ghost of smile on her thin lips, curling so briefly as to have never been there at all, her voice low amidst the din of the wagon and the horses, jangling bits and armaments clattering about them. "The Laurel Stones, set high upon the knolls, just past the vineyards of Lord Covington. A hundred men strong it took to lay them you know, and I'm told at least a year before they were perfected. Hauled up from the coast, chosen for their size. My ancestors were no less exacting than my father." A gloved hand went to her chest, fingers flat against the collarbone above her heart, and Gwyneth took a deep breath, eyes alight. "They made the shape of our family crest, great boulders of white stone. You could see them from a distance, a clear sign that you were entering the lands of the Couslands. So proud a family we were . . . are." She corrected, glancing beneath the rim of heavy lashes at her king husband.

He would've pressed for more, it was the most she'd said since they had last packed up camp, but Gwyneth had battened down like a clam in its shell. Alistair could tell by her posture that he'd not likely get anything else from her for a while, or at least until she was damn good and ready. At least her sorrow hadn't changed _everything_, she was still as stubborn as an all seasons mule.

So the king sat back on his mount, resting his hands on the saddle horn and pretended to be interested in the scenery, though after some time, he found that he didn't have to pretend. He'd never been to the coastlands around Highever, and having heard plenty about the city and her surroundings, the curious boy inside him was brought to life anew.

The road they traveled was made of pressed dirt, ruts the reminders of the cart wheels that has passed long before the king's party, but that soon gave way to large smoothed cobbles, laid well if not meticulously. Alistair imagined for a time, all the hard working commoners that had broken a sweat and their bodies to make a road for the nobility. Distaste settled in his gut to know that he was now a member of the same aristocracy that built their fortunes on the backs of those deemed 'less worthy' Still, for that, looking around him, he couldn't deny the grandeur of County Highever.

Her rolling knolls were deep green with the vitality of good earth and warm coastal sun, and she greeted her visitors with the scent of willows, laurels and the tease of the ocean's shoreline in the distance. Wide houses with roofs of stone and gardens of flowers and herbs colored the side of the road, markers carved of bright chestnut along their route told all who passed by what owners lived inside. Mazel, Betten, Abbot, all proud and burned into place before two storied abodes that could never be called cabins.

Alistair had seen nothing like it. The rest of Ferelden, you only knew who lived in which home by asking. In County Highever, it seemed even the peasants had pride of place, at least in their own minds. The king looked curiously on his brother by marriage, that noble face kept impassive, but for the few smiles the teyrn offered to what people were out, of those few, they had come to the fences to wave at their returning liege lord, gasping aloud to see he had the King and Queen of Ferelden in tow.

A pretty pair of younger ladies, likely sisters, came from a one-story home made with an almost Antivan look, to the edge of the fence, faces looking to the teyrn with girlish admiration. He nodded his head at them, grinning as he commanded one of his men to toss the girls some coin.

"To buy pretty things, for the pretty ladies." Fergus nodded at them, voice smooth as silk, as they giggled over their fancy.

_Fergus was handsome as the day was long, and the bastard knew it, too. _Like his sister, his wounds had healed decently enough, the bruise around his eye, that had been an ugly purple was faded now to the slightest tinge of yellow, though some of his ribs must've still been tender, because he continued to favor the right side. For his admirers, however, they noticed none of those things.

Gwyneth seemed to find the interest her brother had garnered to be of amusement. "Some things never change." Her remark came from the snide curl of a lip as she looked on the peasant girls.

"Did you expect them to, sweet sister?" Fergus chimed, looking all too pleased with himself.

"More the fool, I, if I did." Gwyneth sighed, one hand going to rub at her neck, wincing at the tense pain still residing at the base of her skull, though blissfully she'd been able to take the head wrap off.

Alistair glowered, turning instead to glance at Harold, where the young boy was sat next to the driver of their lone wagon. His eyes were big and round, looking at the world around him. He probably hadn't seen houses with name markers in front of them, either.

The sun was out that day, casting a fine golden flow across the orchards, sturdy trees grown in lines that went well past viewing distance. Young Harold's mouth watered at the small apples that were beginning to form on the ends of thick branches, peeking in pinkish-red past the white apple blossoms that still flourished, for a brief period in kind with the fruit they always preceded. By the autumn they'd be ready for harvest, and it looked to be a good one.

A pair of horses lifted their heads from behind the confines of a painted fence, snorting at the procession, equine ears twitching. It was likely the most activity they'd seen all day. Harold took a fistful from the small sack Fergus had bought him from an outpost vendor, originally filled with sweet cakes, but through the Greenfell boy's fingers there now sifted only crumbs. He tossed them to the horses, laughing when one butted into the other in a short lived scuffle to get them.

It was a place where death was hard to imagine. The king could feel the proof of that in the air, tangible enough that Alistair thought if he curled his fist just so, he might capture that feeling in his hand.

As they started down an incline, sharp rocks began to jut out from their green brows, the blades of grass blowing teasingly over the stone like the bangs on an unruly child's head. Staring down the Branson Road, the village of Deits came into view, curls of smoke winding from bronze lit cliffs, seemingly cut into the hillside. The bowl shaped cavern was huge, almost the size of Redcliffe, and Alistair blinked at it.

"What's that smell?" Harold covered his nose with the sleeve of a new shirt.

"Copper, Master Tennan. A hearty smell, if unpleasant." Fergus drolled out, pressing his hand flat above his eyes, the wink of the sun catching on the metallic threads in the far off rocks. "I think maybe they've started a new shaft, Gwyn, I don't seem to recall the pit stretching so far southwest."

The queen shrugged. "As if I've a care for copper mining." She bit out.

With the sun beating down on his back, and the wink of the massive copper mine in his eyes, Alistair turned to narrow his gaze at the teyrn. Harold had said his name was _Hewitt_, and yet Fergus had just called him _Tennan_, and the boy had barely blinked. When Gwyneth turned, as if sensing her husband's unease, he raised a questioning brow, that she only ignored.

"The sooner we can get into town, and get ourselves ready for Highever, the better I'll feel." She sighed into words, lending them weight.

But Alistair already wasn't feeling so grand, the familiar sensation that something was going on that he hadn't been made aware of, tingled up his spine.

* * *

A swath of green lay across Gwyneth's lap, her fingers busy with white and gold thread, one laurel branch already completed. She held the boy's cloak up for inspection, nodding in approval as she made sure the other branch was going to be even. A set of candles burned on the desk next to her, a bowl of rose water and spiced incense burning beside them. It was a thick smell, but she'd needed it to get past the cloying odor of the room they were in. It was the nicest inn within town, but that didn't mean the place hadn't been steeped with the scent of smelt copper and old wood.

A low humming began in her throat, as she kept her mind busy with work. _Depression finds its seeds in idle minds_, or so her mother had always said. A knock at the door came, rapid and harder than she'd been expecting, and Gwyneth accidentally stabbed her finger with the needle, in her surprise.

"Ssst!" A short hiss, and the finger went to her mouth, gritting her teeth together behind it. "Come in."

That blonde head could've belonged to no other, and she sighed. "Alistair, do you not find it absurd to knock at the door of your _own_ room?"

"Every other time I've surprised you, you screamed, I thought I'd avoid that." He turned to lock it behind him, pacing across the room and looking out the window.

"Hardly _every_ time, but I suppose that's fair." She went back to her sewing, assuming he was bored of his meal and the company to be had downstairs, but when he only stood at the window, Gwyneth had a feeling he might've been brooding. She set the cloak on the desk, clear of the candles. "Alright, out with it then."

"Arl Wulff sent a small company of men from Highever to travel with us back to city. I think your brother chose wisely when it came to seneschals. A Lord Covington, by name, asked specifically to be your champion. Ser Hadrian had thought he was the Queen's Champion, while somehow, I wasn't even aware you had to have one. How is it that the king doesn't know the most basic things, when everyone around him does, and is content to let their king go on remaining ignorant?"

The bite to his voice wasn't hidden and Gwyneth wasn't in the mood to indulge him, but did so anyway. "Alistair, its hardly so important a matter. It is usually customary for the queen to have a champion amongst the Knights of Denerim, but not always. Though in Highever, my great-grandfather made it law, after an attempt on the life of Cilla, the wife of King Brandel, your own great-grandfather. So if I'd had none, it would be tradition that I was given a champion to enter the gates of Highever." She laid her hands on her lap, folding them. "So you see? Now you know and the matter is settled. Though you may tell Ser Hadrian that he can remain my champion, I doubt Lord Covington shall object. It was more of a courtesy, I imagine."

"Oh yes? Well, that was easy wasn't it, to grant that courtesy?" He turned, lips taut. "A pity I've not been given the same."

"Alistair . . . I'm weary, and honestly, am in no frame of mind to play word games with you. Solicit for it straight, or not at all."

A harsh chuckle escaped him, and Alistair walked closer, almost backing down for the shallow circles he spied beneath Gwyneth's eyes, but pity wouldn't stay his words. "That's a riot of laughter, coming from you. When have you Couslands ever given anyone straight answers? I'm betting not very often. So I suppose I should be thankful your brother finally decided I deserved to know what was going on with the Greenfell boy."

"Young Harold? Is that what this is all about?" She finally did roll her eyes, standing slowly to square her shoulders at him. "Oh, for goodness sake Alistair. What does it matter? Fergus is to squire him, not _you_. Why do you give such a holy damn, anyway?"

"A squire of Highever? I was pretty sure I've heard your father's rule of thumb was never to allow peasants a position in his court. Even to squire. You told me that yourself." He ignored her last question.

She nodded, tucking her curls behind her. "That's true, but _your _father made a farmer's son into a teyrn, a poor decision as it turned out, but the people accepted it as truth. That's what they'll always do, what they _have_ to do, accept the truth that we give them."

"What if they don't like it?"

"Who could question the squiring of the last born son of the mayor of Greenfell? A lesser noble, but a noble all the same."

"Ah yes, that's where the Tannen came from." Alistair scowled, too tired to even raise his voice very much. "_Mayor_ Tannen. You know damn well he isn't the mayor's boy. His father was a shepherd, like as not."

"Was he? I can't recall anything like that."

"Have you gone mad? Pretending that something is true, doesn't make it so!"

"Doesn't it? Harold will be given a different life, a different title, and the only way to do that and publicly keep to my father's ideals, is to introduce him as a lesser noble. We're hardly making him into Lord on High. The boy understands that, he had no complaints." Gwyneth felt herself beginning to grow defensive and angry.

"The boy understands nothing . . . because he's a _boy_! He lost his whole family, his life and has no one to watch out for him. Of course he isn't going to argue with the teyrn, that his father probably taught him from birth, was to be obeyed, and he wouldn't argue with a queen either. Harold's not a brainless peasant, but he is young and frightened and you would take advantage?"

Gwyneth's eyes widened in disbelieving anger. "_Advantage_? He was a sheep herder's boy. He would've grown up to marry some simple village girl, and father a slew of simple minded boys to help him with the family farm when his father died, and on and on it would've gone. Now he'll be a squire, he'll be Harold Tannen, last surviving son of Greenfell, the mayor's own blood, squired at Highever, under the Cousland banner he was raised to serve. I'd damn well say _he_ has the advantage, not _us_."

Alistair wanted spit his frustration. "You can't just do that! Just make up some story and _will_ it into being, pretend that it's the truth!"

"Isn't that what we do _every_ day? _Pretend _our people are safe, _pretend _that we can keep them that way?" When her husband winced, she continued. "All the while, covering villages like Greenfell in a burial shroud and telling the citizenry that we don't know what happened. Smoke and daggers, Alistair, that's all anything ever is. Especially for the King and his Queen Consort."

"And what? Harold will just have to go along with it, make believe that his parents are someone else? What about his _real_ family, dead now, and you are suggesting they should also be forgotten." He knew she couldn't mean that, she'd lost her own family, and she just couldn't mean it.

"Yes. That is precisely what I'm suggesting. They're gone, as you have said and as we all know. _Gone_, like most of your knights are gone, like most of Fergus' men are gone, as my Noble is gone! I will not come away from that village with absolutely _nothing,_ I _refuse_!" Gwyneth caught herself beginning to shriek, and reined her temper in. "Harold will find no benefit from the weight of the dead."

He scoffed at that. "So your solution is to force this boy into a role he isn't ready for?"

"Are we talking about Harold, or _you_?"

That hurt, and Alistair felt his anger slipping, a nameless melancholia taking a hold of him. "That's not fair."

"And what _is_ fair, anymore, Alistair? You tell me that." She had leaned against the desk, as if tired of her own words.

Something was there, like a stone beneath the river's water, and if he squinted, Alistair could almost see it, what was driving her. "This isn't about me, or Harold, is it? It's about _you_, and how you keep trying to emulate your father."

Fury coursed in her veins, and she rose from the desk, jabbing Alistair in the chest, but he refused to bend to her displeasure. "How dare you! You don't know anything _about _my father!'

"But I do. I've heard enough, from your mouth and all the other nobles in this country, some hating him, some afraid of him, and some people, like you and your brother, worshipping him, like Bryce Cousland was the bloody Maker himself!"

Gwyneth slapped him, enraged, a red welt left on his cheek from her wedding ring.

His eyes were dark and dangerous, voice just as coiled. "You aren't your father, and trying to force yourself into the mold he left behind will never shape you into him. You talk about the weight of the dead, but you carry that around like shackles, more than the rest of us. I don't know if you're trying to follow in his footsteps, or eclipse them and make your father proud, but this? Pushing an innocent boy around like he was a chess piece to your grand plan? That doesn't serve any best interest, certainly not _his_, and while you think differently, it doesn't serve _yours_ either."

"And who left a legacy for _you_? Eamon gave you an education, furthered by the chantry, and that was the only preparation you had. You were a forgotten boy, saved by circumstance, where a lot of people pretend that they don't know what you are, where you came from." She pressed her advantage as if words alone could win the battle of wills. "Well, _I_ know, Alistair, just as I know that this marriage saved you, that without me, you'd still be that lost boy. Even if you could have won the Landsmeet without my hand, we both know you wouldn't be the king that you are, without me at your side, without my favor. I have given you the chance you always needed. _I_ did that. Not Eamon, not the people of Ferelden, and certainly not Maric, but _me_."

"Gwyneth, I never said . . ." He started in, but she'd have none of it, voice lowered enough to give Alistair pause.

"I am _not_ trying to become my father, I am using what he left me to better myself, to better this country, and you can cry it off if you like, but you know that you've benefited from the education he gave me, the legacy you want to turn your nose up at now, because it makes you uncomfortable. Well, you tell me, this boy that has no family, no friends left, what _is_ better for him? I suppose one could call you an authority on the subject, so tell me, what would be better?" His silence was the backdrop to the wicked curve of her lips.

"Yes, that's what I thought. Next time you want to accuse me of using someone else to cover my own personal problems, at least have the words to back that up. The boy stays in Highever, and Fergus will give him a life he'd never have had otherwise, he'll become a young lord of the Coastlands, and forget that he was less than that, remembering his parents fondly from time to time, saddened, but grateful for the hand of fate that brought him a better future. You can't tell me that after all this, he doesn't deserve that. It is hardly the awful burden you claim it to be, and while you may not always like my methods, you cannot argue with my results. I _improve_ the lives of those deserving of a better hand, not imprison them with unfair demands, and if I 'push them around like chess pieces' at least in the end they'll be on the winning side of the board."

The king shook his head, sad but not resigned. "No, I can't argue that you have skills, that you've a way with people that I'll never have. You are the only one that could've made sense of the political mess that was Orzammar. But that doesn't change the fact that your reasons for this latest idea of yours, aren't altruism. It's guilt and heartache moving you forward, pushed and pushed by what your parents wanted you to be. Don't think your speeches can hide that from me, I know you too well now. Maybe you should've hid your intentions better, if a lost boy from Redcliffe could see them."

"Alistair . . . wait . . . I didn't . . . ." Caught out, she tried to find her path forward again, but he was ready for her.

"It isn't that you want to help this boy, though I confess that maybe you do a little bit. But it's because you couldn't help your nephew, isn't it? A lot of things are your fault, just as a lot of things are my fault, but _that_ isn't. From what you told me, there's not a damn thing you could've done that would have saved him and you both, and having your brother squire this boy, who so recently lost his own family? That doesn't change the past."

"So, what do you suggest, oh Wise King Alistair?" Gwyneth sneered.

"I think squiring him is a good idea, but with his own name."

"We can't do that. You know we can't. There are rules . . . there are . . ."

Alistair shook his head. "Explain it away, like you always do, but that's not going to bring your nephew back to life, or heal the hurt inside your heart. You want to pretend that you don't suffer inside unless it suits you, that your sadness is a fleeting thing and you can always get over it. Well, you can't. I suffer for Duncan, I suffer for the Grey Wardens lost at Ostagar and those wiped out in Amaranthine, I suffer for the fact that my father didn't want me, and that the only woman who did, I sent away to marry _you_. Time heals wounds, but it doesn't keep the scars from forming, Gwyneth. Nothing can do that, and if you want to help this boy, if you _truly_ want to 'salvage' something from Greenfell, do it for the right reasons, and don't try to pretend that you aren't hurting right now and that it isn't affecting how you think. Being a Cousland, being your father's daughter, it doesn't make you more than human."

She was shaking, face reddening in anger. "You son of a whore! I won't be spoken to like this, certainly not by _you_!"

For the first time, he didn't let her barbs get to him at all. "You're angry, because I'm right."

"You assume far too much!" She blustered, but already the mask that had been her ire, was wearing thin.

"Do I?" His dark golden brows raised, clear in his intent. "Here's what I 'assume' I almost lost you in Greenfell, not a passing worry that you could die, but a very _real_ chance of that. So I know, while I was praying for you to wake up, to be better, that you're right. I wouldn't be the king I am without you, I need you, but _you_ need _me_ too."

She didn't agree, but she didn't deny it either.

Alistair knew he was getting to her. "You go on and keep pretending you have the answers to everything, but you don't. No more than I do, and you can try to hide the fact that you're vulnerable, but I know better. I see you for what you are Gwyneth, and no matter how you hide from that, I'll always be able to find you, to see where you are. We're two halves of a whole now."

Her face turned down, as she murmured under her breath, only half hearted. "You've a lot of nerve."

She didn't see the smile on his face until he took her chin in his palm, turning it up. "Yes, I do. I learned it from _you_."

The smile wasn't returned, but a sigh drained the last of her ire. "I won't disrespect my father's wishes. Harold has to be squired under a banner man's rank at least. Why not give him this fresh start? Are you really so opposed?"

"Gwyneth . . . it's not true, so how are you honoring your father's wishes?"

"I told you, the truth is . . ."

"What we make of it, yes." It was Alistair's turn to sigh, brushing a hand back across the top of his head, as was his wont when he worried. "I don't like it, but no, I can't be that opposed to giving the boy something better. Of course I'm not . . . but next time, maybe you can talk to me about these kinds of things." Her chin was still in his palm, oddly they'd both forgotten, until he remembered enough to hold it there, so she couldn't glance away. "Didn't we both promise to try harder at making this work?"

"Yes . . . yes we did." Relenting, she finally gave him a smile, if a tired one. "I didn't honestly deceive you, you know, not _this_ time. I just didn't really think about it. With coming home, and deciding how to tell Ser Gilmore's father that his son is dead, and what kind of a funeral I want for . . . for Noble . . . I . . . I just . . ." Her composure fell in that instant, salty tears running down the pallor of her cheeks.

For so often finding themselves on opposing sides, they came together so easily then, his arms around her back, her shoulders shaking into his frame. Alistair pressed his cheek to her hair. "It's alright, Gwyn, it's alright."

"No it isn't. It won't ever be alright." She sobbed into his shirt.

"Yes it _will_. The truth is what we make of it . . . remember?" His sad smile was drawn against the softness of her hair, as it tickled his nose.

She turned to look up at him, a shadow of a laugh in her voice. "Trust you to make a joke of it. What japes you'd have spun were I not here to keep you in line." She expected him to laugh at that, embarrassed now for her tears, a rarity that they were spent without the desire to use them.

Instead his face was serious, a palm against her cheek, fingers curling under her jaw. "No. If I'd lost you in Greenfell, there would never be another joke out of my mouth again, sweetheart."

Discomfited by how intent he seemed, she tried one of his own tricks of lightening the mood. Her mouth curled in the corner. "I told you, don't call me . . ."

"Sweetheart." Alistair whispered against her lips, before he claimed them in a kiss, fingers twining into the curls that lay against her cheeks, still wet with tears and those too he kissed away. He pulled back to touch her nose to his, smiling at the shock on her face. "Sweetheart." The repetition came again and again, her mouth unyielding under his, until finally, she kissed him back and there were no more tears that night.

* * *

Dawn came as a gray crawl of light, dim and joyless as it fell onto the open pit mine, failing to reach into the deeper shafts. That slow sun was in no more of a hurry for the royal party waiting beneath it than it would've been for anyone else, cloud cover not promising that the sun would even show its face that day. No matter how strong the will of Fergus Cousland, he couldn't control the weather.

"Shit day for a homecoming. The Maker could've at least given you some sun, My Grace." Lord Lanen Covington looked up at the sky from atop his mount, a well bred chestnut from the Free Marches, and a gift for his twentieth birthday that past spring from his lord father, Adley, whose many vineyards gave the man an enviable wealth. A pair of light blue eyes glanced behind him, taking in the few teyrn's men there were left. "Seems you've been having a time of things, anyway."

"We're Coastlanders, we take what we're given and make diamonds out of shit, if we have to." Fergus grinned, not to be deterred. There were five men, under the brief command of Covington, who had grown into his role just as well as he'd grown in general. The pale red haired nobleman was always short and underfoot as a lad, Fergus remembered with some fondness, but he was tall and lean muscled now. A man of the coast. "Damn good of Wulff to send you."

"Hardly any fuss, and it does me good to be seeing your lady sister again." A wolfish smile drew up his lips, the few freckles dotting his cheeks seemed to move in kind. "Fine gem, that one, always was."

Fergus glared. "Careful now, Covington, that's _my_ sister, and your queen now besides."

Lanen was barely phased, smiling. "Aye, milord, both true statements, but she's still a fine gem."

Fergus smirked, trying not to laugh, but Covington had always been a ballsy bastard, even for the smaller stature days of his youth, growing up beside the lady he admired. "Can't argue with that, I suppose. But you keep your eyes where they're proper, and they'll stay in your head."

"You going to cut them out?" Lanen winked, knowing there was little intent behind those words.

"Maker, no! You're the best master at arms that I know . . . but _he_ might." Fergus gestured to the king, busy saddling up his horse.

"The Dragon King, eh? Be mighty queer to see a dragon saddling a horse. Don't kings have men to do that?"

"Usually, but King Alistair is . . ." Fergus thought of his sister's term. "A _unique_ man."

A short laugh escaped Lord Covington, though no less merry. "I'd say _so_. All sorts of rumors we've been getting on your Dragon King. Cutting off old Mac Tir's head himself, then making the Loren heir shoot his own brother. Tough, for a bastard, and lucky. I don't know of any other bastard kings, save him." The young lord had a pleasant brogue beneath his educated speech, the Coastland's tongue that never quite left its people, though that was ages ago, and they were all 'civilized' now.

"Quite, but I'd not call him that, were I you. He doesn't take it kindly or in any sort of good humor." Fergus cautioned, lowering his voice.

"No, I'm betting not. Big man, though, isn't he? Maybe he _is_ part dragon after all." The Highever Master at Arms noted, turning to take in their new king.

"Bah! Anyone seems big to _you_, Lanen." Fergus scoffed and the both of them laughed at that. All the while, Fergus rolled Alistair's impromptu title around in his mind. His sister's work, no doubt of that, but he couldn't deny that it made an impression. Alistair caught their laughter and turned to look.

Lanen saluted him and Fergus nodded. "We'll be heading out soon, if we want to make good time into the city. Won't be far now."

"Bless the Maker for that." Gwyneth exited from the inn, Ser Hadrian, a man that truly _was_ massive, behind her. He helped her up on to the seat of the wagon, next to the young Master Harold.

The boy seemed nervous, pulling at the collar of his new doublet, the golden clasp of his velvet green cloak made into the shape of crossing lances. The aged mark of Highever itself. He almost pricked his fingers on them several times, until he'd learned to avoid the clasp. His hair had been washed and combed, and Gwyneth had it treated it for bugs in kind, and Harold tried not to itch it, his scalp feeling a might dry and abused.

With a clean face and clothes newer and fresher than ever he'd had, the ten year old was feeling oddly out of place, but everyone had been cordial to him. The queen had found a small ring, with the carving of a willow tree on it, and had it sized down so Harold could wear it on his own index finger. He didn't know what importance that had, but he'd done as he was asked. All alone and surrounded by adults with titles he could barely remember, he didn't want to get himself into trouble, so he did everything that they asked and tried to smile.

At least they were going to let him keep his first name.

"Good morning, Majesty. Though we've no sun, you have warmth and beauty enough for all of us." Lanen grinned, bringing his horse up to the wagon in a slow canter, that Ser Hadrian watched carefully.

"A flatterer, as always. _This _is Lord Harold Tannen, the last son of the good mayor of Greenfell, now in passing I'm afraid, as is the rest of his family. Such terrible tragedy there, but Lord Tannen is with us now. He's to be squired at Highever." Gwyneth preened, the words not only for Lanen's sake, but Harold's as well, so he might better remember the role he had been given. "Lord Harold, this is Lord Lanen Covington, we rode past his father, Lord Adley Covington's, vineyards yesterday. Lord Lanen and I grew up together, his family has a long tradition as banner men for the Couslands, and he's been promoted to Highever's Master at Arms, with the seneschal, Arl Magnus Wulff of West Hill. He also serves for Teyrn Fergus now."

Harold tried to remember all that information. "Ah . . . nice . . . nice to meet you Lord Lanen."

"And you as well, young master. My condolences on your loss, family is no good thing to have to say your goodbyes to. And my condolences for Her Majesty as well. Noble was the greatest mabari the Coastlands had ever seen." He put a brief hand on the woman's shoulder.

"Thank you, milord." Gwyneth forced her smile, face taut with the effort.

"It's good to have you home, dear lady." He offered.

Gwyneth nodded her head, an arm put around one of Harold's shoulders. "Yes, and I hope our new squire takes to Highever well."

"She's the finest city in Ferelden, Lord Harold, you can be assured of that, and she'll be glad for more valiant men to protect her, but we can talk more of that when you train with me in the yards." He winked, leaning to ruffle the boy's hair before Fergus called the lord away.

Harold looked at Gwyneth with wide eyes, whispering. "Training?"

"There's nothing to fear, all new squires train with the Master at Arms, to find what they're best at." She smoothed his hair back down. "I'm sure you'll do fine."

"I'm . . I'm not afraid." Harold jutted his jaw out, trying to emulate the lords around him and the pride they wore on their faces.

Gwyneth's smile then was genuine. "Good."

Alistair came up beside her, startling her. Maybe he wasn't so wrong about frightening her with his abruptness all the time. "Good morning, My Queen."

"Good morning, My King." She let him take her hand to kiss her knuckles, noting the cheeky light in his eyes. Whatever affection had afflicted them both the night before, was still with him. Gwyneth surprised herself to be pleased at that. There had been nothing but those strangely calming kisses, until exhaustion drew them both down to sleep, and when she'd woken up, Alistair had already folded the blankets up on his side of the bed, and was gone from the room. A note left on top of her hair brush where he knew she'd find it, scrawled in the thin hasty script of his that she was familiar with.

_'I told Harold he was riding with you in the wagon seat, I thought that would comfort him and you both. You'll have to chastise me later. - A.'_

She hadn't chastised him, as it turned out, and whatever distress he had over the situation with the Greenfell boy, was covered well with a bright smile and keen eyes.

"We'll be in Highever soon, you know, are you excited Lord Hew . . . Tannen." The king corrected at the last second, noting the sharp look he'd garnered from his wife.

"It's a big city, ain't it?" The boy fretted at his lower lip.

'Isn't it. _Isn't_. We don't use the word 'ain't' milord." Gwyneth tutted at him, before nodding ahead to the main road in front of them. "And yes Highever is a _very_ big city. Though the capital of Denerim is somewhat larger."

"Never been to a big city before, my father said it was dangerous."

Alistair leaned ahead in his saddle, certain to capture Harold's attention with his grin. "We are safe as safe can be, and once you're in Highever, I'm sure you'll feel better." The words were pointed at Harold, but they were for Gwyneth as well. The former tried to smile back, the latter only looked at him with a curt nod.

"Saddle up! We move forward. To Highever and to greet Great Grandfather Ardal!" Fergus shouted as the company started ahead.

"Your great grandfather is still alive?" Harold whispered beside the queen.

A humored smirk drew her lips up, painted a plum rose that morning, making her mouth seem fuller than it was. It lent the smirk a cat-like quality. "Not exactly, but you'll see soon enough."

Behind them, the crowded busy streets of Deits fell away, eaves hanging at sharp angles to cover the path with a shadow. Metal structures traveled past them on flat carts, one even that had an iron claw mounted to the front of it. 'Machines' Teyrn Fergus had called them, creations of the harried and strange minds of the Tevinter inventors. Alistair craned his head around, quirking a brow at them.

"Probably to cut into the rock, and silt the copper out." Ser Hadrian murmured, the man speaking so rarely that it startled his king, who looked at him curiously. The broad shouldered knight shrugged. "I've seen them before, sire. Went to the Holy Emperor's tourneys in Minrathous once or twice."

"Did you win?" Alistair asked.

Hadrian grinned, a more than rare occasion. "I didn't lose, Your Majesty."

The king could only nod at that, shaking his head in amazement. There was still so much he had to learn, even of his own knights. He only had three now. The agile Ser Simon Boughton, at once a scout, and now the King's First Knight, the Qunari sized Ser Arthur Hadrian, who had taken up as his Queen's Champion, and the quiet Ser Belem Cromwell, who had barely spoken since Greenfell.

Teyrn Cousland was left with four, whose names Alistair had to struggle to remember. Leothidus Angmar, whose parents must not have liked him very much to give him that moniker, though the young brunette man must have earned some favor, as it was said he was most likely to become Fergus' Commander of the Guard. Lord Angmar was followed by the pale and narrow faced Brom Selanwen formerly of Jader, who had a strange amalgam of Fereldish and Orlesian accents warring over his tongue. Alistair didn't care too much for him, his black hair and dark brown eyes gave him the look of a crow, and he was all the while squinting as if trying to figure out some difficult puzzle. Then there were the bearded Tanest twins from Dunharrow, a pair of green eyed red heads that had come with Ser Gilmore, the more brash Dansel and the serious Durlem. The king didn't envy either of them the position as fourth born lords. He knew that noble families tended to get crowded after a second son.

With Lord Covington and his five men from Highever, they made a company of thirteen. Alistair hoped that was their lucky number.

His thoughts fell away as they left Deits to round a sharp curved cavern, the stone opening to the sight of the Waking Sea before them, scant daylight skimming on the surface, dark blue for the lack of a sun . . . _but Maker was it a sight_! He'd seen Lake Calenhad as a boy, and seen that very sea when they'd traveled the coastline from Amaranthine, but this was something altogether different. That expense of limitless blue spread out not a mile below a cliff's edge, but right before them at the stony shore, the sound of gulls nesting and the crash of white capped waves like a song to his ears.

"Are we at the end of the world?" Harold gasped aloud and Alistair sent him a sidelong smile, as Gwyneth only stared at the water.

"Not just yet, Lord Tannen, not just yet." He brought his mount up to the slower moving wagon. "Gwyn . . . are you alright?" A whisper that he wasn't sure she heard, until she nodded.

"Don't worry about me, I'll be fine."

But he worried anyway.

Hours seemed to pass much faster, such scenery to be had around them that Alistair was certain he'd have a crick in his neck later from turning his head so often. Green moss made the pathway slick, and he had to keep at least one eye on his horse, but the other was wont to wander.

Wilderberries hung on low vines from the shale and lime of the cliff side, its upper edge far above their heads now as they hugged the sea. In the winter it wasn't likely anyone could use that road, but it was summer and he meant to enjoy it, raising a hand to pluck some berries for the steed beneath him.

"What's _that_?" Harold shouted again, awestruck, and Alistair looked ahead to see why.

A colossal effigy was ahead of them, nearly as tall as Fort Drakon. Carved from the sides of a cliff, the passage was made between the battling warrior to the left, sword landing into the massive werewolf on the right, the company passing beneath where the combatants met claw for blade. It was so high and huge as to make his head hurt looking at it, craning back as they passed underneath. His eyes widened to big pools of brown, the wonder to be found in boyhood fancies that Harold could enjoy, not so forgotten then. "Andraste wept! How was that made?" The awe apparent in his own voice garnered Gwyneth's attention.

"By a great many dedicated hands, there is another like it if you come into the city from the Faireway above." She put a hand on Harold's shoulder. "_That_, milord, is my great grandfather, Ardal 'The Wolfsbane' Cousland. Beloved of Ferelden for freeing the country from an infestation of werewolves that nearly swallowed up County Highever once. It is said, that the Maker Himself blessed my great grandfather's silver blade with holy power, enough so that it bled into Ardal's veins, turning his eyes the very silver of his great sword, and ever after we Couslands have been born with silver eyes." Her voice was calming for its delivery, and proud in its certainty.

"You _all _have silver eyes?" The boy asked, in wonderment.

"Every last one of us born to the bloodline." She assured the little lordling her brother had taken in, gesturing back to the massive statues. "So you see, one cannot pass into Highever without first making it past brave Ardal, and so, you are safe once you are beyond that great lord." Her face turned down, thinking of her own youth, when she'd believed that. "Or so it _used_ to be." Harold hadn't heard that murmer, and that was probably for the best.

The effigies had survived the great many years of Orlesian tyranny, civil war and a Blight, but they hadn't been able to keep out Howe's men. Gwyneth told herself she never believed in magical blessings, but _that_ one had been heart breaking to let go of.

She tensed up, taking a deep breath, and tucking a wayward curl behind her ear, fingers touching the golden droplets of her earrings. The queen was at her finest, dressed in Highever green and gold, the only red that of her crown, lain against her head as a feminine match to Alistair's. Her brother had the etched silver diadem of the Teyrn of Highever, a pearl at its top carved into the crossing white laurels of their house. Alistair was dressed in regal red and gold, cutting a fine specimen, even without the sun to lend any of the company an added brilliance. His hair was getting long enough to tie it back if he wished, but it lay in thick dark gold locks across his shoulders, braided with carved gold stones.

For a moment, staring at her husband, Gwyneth could almost imagine Cailan there instead, but she shook herself free of that painful illusion, eyes going forward to the mighty stone wall of her home.

_Home._

The word hit her suddenly, and she almost couldn't get her air, then the great wrought gates of the city came into view. Long fluttering banners of darkest green, crossed with golden spears, hung beside the grey wrought steelwork of the gate, two towers at either side and guardsmen at the ready. A trumpeter announced them loudly as the gear works for the gate came to life, pushed by the many strong men who manned the wall.

Gwyneth's hands tightened into fists in her lap and she tried just to breathe . . . _just breathe_!

A hand curled over one of hers, strong fingers prying hers apart to hold them soothingly in a gloved palm. Alistair smiled comfortingly at her. "Its alright, sweetheart."

She didn't correct him, eyes wide and fixed as they passed under the gate, the city spread out before them, but she curled her fingers with his, as he kept pace beside the wagon.

"_I sing a song of this legacy of laurel, that I be gone never again, for whose mighty gates I find my longing, for home and love and bed_." Lord Covington began the traditional madrigal that Gwyneth's father had always wanted sung when they returned from abroad.

Hot tears stung her eyes, and to her horror even young Harold noticed, the brave boy taking her free hand as Alistair held the other. "It's okay. I'm scared too." He assured her, and she laughed, sorrowful and merry all at once, as the other men joined in, her brother's voice strong of timbre amongst them all.

He looked back at her, pressing a hand over his heart, and she smiled.

"_Last we stand against the claw, the blade and war. Never our posts we leave, never forgiveness we implore. This legacy of laurel is our love, we never stray again, for honor bound are we, born on Cousland land_."

She was a mighty thing, Highever, the different levels of the city cut into the rock bed long ago, slanting cobbled streets leading their traveler's through its terraced homes. All stone eaves and thick stone walls, bright colored flags and signs abound, with huge statues and fountains at nearly every marketplace circle.

Down on the quays long sturdy docks stretched into the Waking Sea like fingers. There were some of the same strange machines as they'd had in Deits, only at the city docks a few were already at work, three to four men manning each of them as the large mechanisms were made to lift huge crates from docked tradesman's vessels.

The smell of wine, and crowded streets greeted their nostrils first, that fresh salt sting of the water hanging over it all.

Above those streets loomed the cliff where generations of teyrns had been born. Gwyneth tightened her fingers on Alistair's even more, eyes finding the blackened stones of the once grand Castle Cousland.

"I'm home, Papa, just like I promised." She whispered, her voice carried away by the din of the city she had once loved more than anything, leaning into the wagon at her back. "We're home, Noble."


	57. Chapter 57: Music Box

******Disclaimer:** _"Dragon Age: Origins" and all its expansions and additional content is the property of Bioware and EA Games. Large portions of written content within the game, as well as Dragon's Age: The Stolen Throne, and Dragon's Age: Calling, are the creation of David Gaider. Original scenarios and characters are used under the creative license of the writer, ItalianEmpress1985. No profit is being made and the following story is for entertainment purposes only._

**Words From the Author: **_My father recently suffered a stroke, and there's been a lot to do on my end of things. I'm also borrowing a laptop to do my writing, and its a pain in the hump. I need to unpack my 'own' computer. So my apologies for the chapter wait . . . again. At this point, I think Lady Luck has taken a real dump on me, but there isn't much else that could happen . . . unless I get struck down by a meteorite some fine Autumn evening. Let's pray for this author's well being then, so this story can be completed, if nothing else. Thank you in advance for both your patience and continued interest._

_Castle Cousland, what little of it we see, in the game isn't really impressive at all. Many spots had 'open' ceilings and the structure itself was a very generic castle, in fact if you do some of the thief side missions in Denerim there's one mission where you are in exactly the same set. That obviously wasn't going to work for this story and this set of Couslands. Theirs is far more a Tudor-era castle, inspired by both Edinburgh Castle and Burkhill Castle of Scotland, which are linked in my profile under extras, along with a very sad track from the Game of Thrones soundtrack, which I played while I wrote Noble's funeral. _

_In addition, the chapter title's reasoning becomes apparent later on, and was inspired by a sad and eerie track from Nox Arcana's "Annabel Lee' which I listened to throughout Gwyneth's memories of home, and it put me very close to mind of music boxes, also listed in extras in my profile. The item itself would have existed in the Tudor-age I'm representing here, as it was powered only by gears and tines that would run according to how long you wound them. Though obviously no frilly pink frocked ballerina would be inside._

_Also, just for clarity's sake, the last words spoken during the funeral are from the Canticle of Trials which is Dragon Age canon and not of my own creation. It just seemed very appropriate and most likely what 'would' have been said at a funeral presided over by a Sister from the chantry. There seem to be two different versions of Trials 1:14, though they are mostly similar with just a slight difference between them, I went with the one in the codex for 'Origins' that was on Xbox._

_This installment is, to me, a rather haunting ode to childhood forgotten and innocence lost. Its not light hearted subject matter, though I don't think anyone was expecting it to be, but that said, there is, at least 'I' think, still that underlying love of family holding the threads together. Because of that, and because of her due date (soon to be upon her) I'd like to dedicate this chapter to one of my readers, who I won't name in case she wants to keep it private but 'she' knows who she is, who is expecting her first child. There is no love quite like that between parent and child. So, my dear, this one is for you._

_Thank you for stopping by, and watch out for low flying dragons._

* * *

_**Chapter Fifty Seven:**_

**Music Box**

* * *

"_Other things may change us, _

_but we start and end with family." _

_- Anthony Brandt_

* * *

**June 22'nd, 9:31, Dragon Age**

**F**aces long since passed stared down from on high, carved in stone; a skilled sculptor having brought the Cousland ancestors to life in eerie detail. The last two siblings to carry that old moniker walked through the large cemetery, garbed in the dark colors of mourning. The sky above them was a lifeless white of thick clouds, a fine mist falling from it that seemed to match the mood of the day.

It was a private affair, only a few guards brought in attendance, along with a Sister from what remained of the Highever chantry. Most of the chantry's servants had fled during Howe's occupation of the city, and only now had some begun to return. Even the king stayed away, whether by the queen's command or his own propriety, whatever he might've possessed, Teryn Fergus wasn't aware, but his thoughts remained only on his family then, and didn't stray far.

Their grandfather's stone smile hovered above their heads as they bowed down to the grass, reaching the edge of the graveyard where the newest graves were set. Beneath the headstones where his wife and son should have lain, there was naught but cold earth, their bodies and those of his parents likely burned by Howe's men. Fergus hadn't found a trace of them, though in truth he couldn't bear to remain in the rubble strewn halls of what had been his home, never any longer than an hour at a time.

Gwyneth had yet to step foot inside, had barely glanced at Castle Cousland, her eyes fixed forward that afternoon as the small procession for her mabari had started up the hill, leading to the cliff side knoll up to the cemetery.

Everything that the Couslands had built over the centuries was constructed to remind those not of the bloodline, of just what greatness that ancient family possessed. Yet all Gwyneth could think of, looking at the fancy carved statues and monuments, was that it wasn't the 'great' Bryce Cousland and his legacy that had died that horrid night, but Gwyneth's family, her heart and soul, her blood and her own legacy that had been left behind in the flames. Mother, Father, Nephew . . . those were the titles she mourned, the only ones that mattered beneath her ribs.

She blinked against the stinging in her eyes as two of her brother's guards gently carried Noble forward to the grave dug for him, his stone hastily carved.

He'd be the first mabari buried amongst the honored Cousland dead, but no one had questioned it, many didn't dare. For those that could've, there was no question of the queen's immense love for her war hound, and perhaps it was common decency that held the tongues at bay. None of them could ever know how much she had loved her mabari, no one but herself, and Noble, and one of them was dead now. He was past knowing anything . . . but Gwyneth would remember.

_Growling roused Gwyneth from a deep sleep. Dragging herself from it was a chore, as she pressed her face to the soft down pillow, snuggling against its comfortable warmth until she could no longer ignore the noise._

_'Noble . . .' She whined, twisting under the bedspread to reluctantly drag her night-gown encased legs out from under it. 'Do you have any idea what hour it is? It has to be after midnight. I'm sure whatever you're hearing is just the night guard. You've never liked the clanking their armor makes, I know, but tonight, can't you just ignore it? I'm so tired.' Her eyes remained closed throughout her protest, and when Gwyneth finally opened them it was to a faint stream of moonlight coming through the windows, catching on the shadows of her furniture._

_The mabari continued to growl, and his mistress had no choice but to rouse herself fully from sleep, reaching for a night robe to guard against the chill of October that seeped through the stones. She ought to discuss that with Father, it was nonsense that it was so cold, surely there was more than enough in their family coffers to fund a restructuring of the walls, though Gwyneth realized it was a bit too late in the season to start now._

_Her hand froze, fingers only just grazing the robe where it hung from a hook by her bed. There was a scream and shouting, muffled by the thick walls and the sturdy door. She listened, looking to Noble as he hunkered down, the growl lower in tone as it was when the mabari was as frightened as he was agitated. _

_"What is it?" She was the Lady of Highever, not some frightened elven servant, scurrying about under the stern eye of the ever perturbed Nan, but she couldn't help the squeak in her voice, trying to whisper as quietly as she could._

_A series of rapid knocks at her door had the young lady screaming, though she was quick to compose herself. "Who . . .who is it?" She managed, curling her arms around her body._

_"Milady! You must get dressed, the castle is under . . ." A strange sound came from behind her door, the panicked voice fading away._

_Gwyneth jumped in her skin when a loud thump hit the floor outside her quarters. Noble had a rigid pose, as if ready to attack. The door creaked open, an arm slinking through that sliver of torchlight, and Gwyneth recoiled, slowly moving to sit on the floor, intending on sneaking across it to where she kept her chest of arms. It had never been her desire to leave it there, never caring much for the sword craft that her father and brother took sport in, but one day bled into the other, and she'd forgotten to order it moved down to the armory. Now, she was glad for that, if not the strangling fear that gave her cause to be gladdened over her own absent mind._

_Before any other plans began to take shape, Noble howled, the mabari version of a battle cry, and his muscled chestnut form bounded out the door, and the arm had disappeared along with the hound. Gwyneth slowly began to slink across her floor, wincing every time her nightgown brushed a little too loudly against her rug. The sound of chain mail jangling against its under-tunic caught her ears, and she turned her head, gasping as one of Rendon Howe's men grinned down at her, blood dripping from the tip of his drawn sword. A bear was etched into a plate he wore against his mail, the insignia of Arl Rendon's house, as it had been for centuries. It caught the light, its open mouth seeming to snarl at Gwyneth as she stared._

_"Hello, dove, you must be chilly down there on the floor, want me to warm you?" A feral grin pulled his mouth upwards towards his cheeks, the hints of a beard catching in the torchlight from the hall, red amongst the brown of his stubble. The man was handsome, if not overly broad, all things that Gwyneth noted in those few moments before she got to her feet, reaching for her robe._

_"You will get out of my room, with all haste, ser, or my father will see to you and your indecency, no matter if you serve his good friend, or no." She threatened, raising her head high and trying to look intimidating in her night frock. Gwyneth was confused as to what was going on, and more than a bit leery, but the threat should have worked._

_It didn't._

_Instead he smiled wider, moving into her room to shut the door behind him, sword still out. "Is that right? Well, considering your father is soon to be dead, if he isn't already, and his 'good friend' knowing all about it, I rather doubt that."_

_Gwyneth felt her chest tighten in fear, backing away slowly, closer to the chest. His words hit her like ice water, stealing her breath, and all she could do was gape. "You . . . you lie!" She snarled, nearly falling over as the backs of her legs hit the edge of the wooden chest._

_"Do I? I'd prove it to you, but I don't really care. I have my orders, a reward for good service waiting for me, but I don't see that my lord would object to me enjoying myself, just a little." He smiled, predatory as he moved closer. The young lady grabbed a bottle of perfume from her dresser and threw it at him, the man ducking in time to miss it, but growling as she grabbed something else._

_"Stay away from me! My father will . . ." Gwyneth screamed as he lunged for her, wrenching her arm behind her back, his sword still held in the other. She felt the cold steel of it as he pressed the tip against her belly, shutting her mouth with the threat it represented._

_"Your father is dead or dying, and soon, you'll be too. So make it easier on yourself, won't you? Don't fight me or I'll make sure you bleed out, nice and slow." He enunciated with pressing the sword ever harder against her stomach, until she only stared at him, the fight seemingly gone. "That's a good lass."_

_She tried to calm herself, thinking through ways to get out of this, as he grabbed her, but one wrong move and that blade would skewer her. He was undoing the clasps around his braes, breathing hard against her neck, struggling with the effort of working one handed. He'd let go of her arms to move, but the sword was still there. Gwyneth dared not move, but as he started pulling up her nightgown, she began screaming. Her slapped her face hard enough to send her to the floor._

_"You think screaming will save you at all?" He was on the floor with her, pressing her back into the carpet. One arm held her down as she kept yelling, trying to get away from him, as the other freed him from his braes and buckles, that same hand up her nightgown and pulling at her knickers._

_"Noble! Noble!" She shrieked and he hit her again, breaking the skin on her lip._

_"I know you're a noble, you stupid cunt. That's what makes this all the more enjoyable. Your kind always looking down on guardsmen, like they aren't the reason you are kept safe. Well, see how safe you are when we decide we value ourselves, more than some . . ." He stopped, the sound of growling from behind him made him turn his head, and then he was the one screaming as two hundred pounds of mabari jumped at him._

_Gwyneth sat up, clutching her nightgown to herself as if it was a shield, eyes wide as Noble savaged her attacker._

_The man shrieked, voice garbled as the mabari tore his throat open, the red spray of ripped arteries painting mabari and mistress both. His dying breath was a bubble of red when Noble finally let him go, turning to Gwyneth._

_Blood splattered her face, and she wiped it off with the sleeve of her night dress, sitting in stunned silence, until she began to sob, realizing what she'd been saved from. Noble whined, turning his head down as he padded next to her, leaning against her, those wide eyes watching his mistress. Gwyneth wrapped her arms around his neck and cried into his blood-matted fur._

The cleric's voice brought her back, her brother the only comfort then, and she nearly fell against him, sobbing anew.

She thought only of the days to come, where she would call for Noble and he wouldn't be there. _'How many times has he saved my life?' _She hadn't been able to save his in the end, and it felt like more than just betrayal. Fergus brought an arm about her shoulder, gently tugging her, urging his sister to lean into him as the small cleric closed Noble's funeral rights.

The little woman raised her hands to the sky, voice reaching out to The Maker, even as those that stood behind the sister fell into respectful silence. "We send to your sight, Great Father, this mabari, and ask that you take him, who was named Noble Cousland, beside you as you have your human children, for much greatness had this mabari in life. Such that cannot be dimmed, and we remember the words of your bride and your prophet, we take comfort in these days of grieving and trust in your guidance always."

Gwyneth stifled her sobs, crying silently as her shoulders shook, Fergus rubbing them and resting his cheek against her head.

Not the slightest ray of sun broke through that emotionless sky, as the Sister spoke her last. "I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Fade. For there is no darkness, nor death either, in The Maker's light and nothing that He has wrought shall be lost."

* * *

Dusk had fallen over Highever, the sky never giving way to the ruddy hues of sunset, the cloud cover merely turning darker and darker. Beneath that hazy mist of night walked a lone figure, a small orange light bobbing with the cloaked figure's movements, drawing closer to the looming castle. Its ramparts wet and gray, presiding over the grounds like a grim watchman.

It was mostly intact, Howe's men having put the flames out so they could reside in the castle's remnants, though they had no care for preserving what remained. Only in staying dry and warm. They'd left rubble and clutter behind, and the new Teryn of Highever couldn't bring himself to spend enough time within to clear the mess, though now that he'd hunted the last of those men down, he'd have to begin reconstruction. It was a shadow of its former glory, the walls scorched black in places, tapestries reduced to ashes or laying in mildewing heaps on the filthy floors. They'd torn down the family banners that had once been hanging at either side of the doors. One lone strip of dark green, worn and ragged, twisted in the wind, clinging to the metal wall-stake that held it aloft.

Gwyneth walked up to the high arch of the grand entrance, only one of the large wooden doors remaining, half of her family's laurel crest carved into it. Its mate had likely been broken down when Howe's men stormed her home. Silver eyes went dark as charcoal as she gazed up at the arch, passing beneath it into what remained of the courtyard. A small caged glass lantern swung from one hand, the small flame in it dancing an orange colored tune.

Ser Hadrian would be displeased that she left without his protection. The knight's pride at being allowed to serve as The Queen's Champion, was obvious, but the queen in question didn't care very much about anyone just then . . . save those who were long past.

Rubble crunched beneath her heels, Gwyneth having not bothered changing out of her funeral garb. Her lungs filled with the dusty air of the great hall, or what had once been the great hall, nerves trembling beneath her skin as she drew her cloak closer around her. _ How long had she feared the ghosts in this place? _Yet, she had to see what was left of her home. Gwyneth Cousland had been born inside those walls, had been raised into the woman she remained. Of all the ghosts wandering those tortured halls, it was what was left of her childhood that frightened her the most.

It was long ago, or so it felt, that her girlish fancies of romantic tales of heroism, had died a slow death, reality replacing them, but they_ had _died. _Except _here_, in this place where memory was a snare trap waiting for your first misstep._

Skirts were gathered in palms made sweaty by anxiety, as Gwyneth cleared her gown of the rubble-strewn floor. She stopped to gaze longingly at a statue of her father, broken down from its pedestal, with one arm missing, as the effigy lay across the great hall where Howe's men had toppled it over. She knelt beside it, one hand reaching out for that stone face. "Papa . . ." The words wouldn't come, caught in her tightening throat.

_Bryce Cousland, Teryn of Highever, lay on the pantry floor, one arm bracing him up as the other held his stomach together, blood pooling around him._

_"Get up, get up, Papa, you'll be alright . . . we'll . . .we'll find a healer, once we get out of here, we'll . ." She stuttered, unable to think, and stopped at her father's bloody hand on her arm._

_"No, my darling girl, I wouldn't survive the standing." He smiled through his pain, thumb stroking his daughter's cheek. "You have to go, Pup."_

There was no life in that carved face, but it was as close as Gwyneth would ever be to seeing her father. Fat tears made trails down her cheeks to fall onto Bryce's stone face, darkening into blotches as his daughter cried. She got down onto the floor beside the effigy, curling close to it, resting her head against the one arm that remained. "Come back and I'll do anything, I promise I will. I lost Noble, Papa, he's gone too now. Its just Fergus and I , and I can't do this anymore!" She pressed her face against that cold stone hand as if it could caress her cheek, but there was no life in it, only the shape of memory that made it seem so. "You always knew what to do, and I need you, Papa."

_"I'm gone now, Pup, and no amount of pleading will ever bring me back." The shadow of her Father had been conjured by that wretched gauntlet, his face gaunt and pale as a spirit. High atop the mountains, the shrine of Andraste lying in wait, and there he was. But it was just an image, nothing more._

The carved hand under Gwyneth's face was cold and hard and she moved away from it, rubbing at her face.

"Pup . . ." The voice came from the reception room and Gwyneth's head turned in that direction, swiping away her tears.

"Fergus . . . did you follow me?" She asked in that dusty hall, raising the lantern she'd brought with her.

There was no answer but the eerie silence that swallowed the castle. Gwyneth rose up from the ground, giving her father's statue a final glance of farewell before she stepped carefully around it, her free hand reaching out to push open the doors to the reception room. They were already off their hinges and creaked open easily. All it took was a careful shove and . . .

She blinked in confusion, looking not at the Cousland reception hall, but the throne room of the palace in Denerim, bathed in afternoon light. _ A hallucination, that's all_. She rubbed her eyes, blinking again, but it was still there, swaths of red velvet hanging down on either side of the two thrones, the smaller one was her own. Something glinted on the seat, and as Gwyneth drew closer she saw it was a crown.

The queen reached for it, but a cry from behind her made her swing about.

"Auntie Gwyn." Oren smiled at her, his chubby toddler's face bright in the light coming in from the windows.

Beyond any thought of dreams, Gwyneth felt relief flood her "Oren." She forgot the crown, surging forward to catch her nephew up in her arms. Before she could reach him, he evaporated into the air and Gwyneth fell, carried by her own momentum to hit the ground.

Her face sent up a small plume of dust, and she coughed, groaning at the stinging pain from the small abrasion on her cheek. The lantern had slid across the floor, resting against a chunk of a fallen pillar. She opened her eyes, bitter disappointment filling them as her vision of the throne room had disappeared along with the illusion of her nephew. It was only the sad disarray of her family's reception room that loomed around, no light save what came from her lantern, lending the debris and columns eerily long shadows, distorted by the rubble.

Some of it had been cleared and piled in one corner, broken benches and the like. The dais had been empty entirely, and Gwyneth suspected Howe's men had been using that part of the room, gloating over the high lord's chair of the man they murdered, like hunters smiling over their kill. She could imagine them, with their cruel jokes and harsh faces, lounging in _her father's _seat.

Anger contorted her features, but there was no one to take it out on, and she surged ahead, skirts sweeping the floor in her wake. Gilmore's 'last stand' had been in that very room, the knight willing to give his life for the family he served. His was true loyalty, not hidden behind a mask of friendship as Rendon Howe had done, and the good Ser Gilmore had been repaid with death, no one there to save him from shrieking monsters in the dead of night.

Gwyneth sniffed, using the edge of her sleeve to bat at her eyes, remembering how she'd pressed a kiss to his lips, briefly but full of thanks. He'd not said a thing about it afterward, not once, and now he was gone, the castle he'd tried to protect yet standing, but no more alive than he was.

Her feet knew the halls and stairs, and she was standing before her bedroom before she even realized it. The lantern hung at her side, where Noble would never stand again. A deep breath, hitched and catching on a sob, as she opened the door, looking in at her old room.

The bed had been used, that much was clear, and Gwyneth fought off a retch from her guts as she thought about that. The rest of the room was in decent enough order, but her things were gone, everything ransacked, but for a bass relief that hung over her bed, of her mother, when Eleanor's last name had still be Davenport, holding a sprig of lavender in one hand and the small trident that had been House Davenport's sigil, in the other. Apparently none of Howe's men felt bothered enough to take it down.

_Noble growled, as Gwyneth clung to him, sobbing after her ordeal, as another man came in, looking down at his fallen comrade, the other man's throat torn open._

_"You little bitch!" He came at her, even as Noble growled, and would've advanced but for the arrow that went through his chest. His surprise was almost comical, hand falling down to caress the bloody tip that stuck out. Two more followed, and he went down, gurgling._

_Gwyneth looked up in abject surprise, holding Noble as if the mabari were the lifeline in a running river. Her mother stood in the doorway, breath heaving and bow drawn. She was wearing the fine capshain of her hunting leathers, something Gwyneth had known her mother possessed but had never seen her wearing._

_"Mama?" She choked out, sobbing anew as Eleanor rushed into the room, going down to her knees as Noble sniffed her, arms going about her daughter. "Mama, mama!" Gwyneth cried, feeling like a little girl all over again in her distress._

_"Shh! My sweetheart, its alright, I'm here. Hush, now, we have to collect ourselves." The teryna murmured into her daughter's hair, her own pulled up hastily into a bun. She leaned back to take in Gwyneth's appearance, the torn nightgown and the dead man on the floor causing her eyes to widen. "Gwyneth, look at me . . . look at me. Did that man . . . did he . . . ?"_

_"No." She knew what her mother was intoning and flinched, absently stroking her mabari's head. "Noble came in and killed him before he could . . . before he could finish."_

_A relieved breath and Eleanor patted Noble's head, rubbing his ear as he panted. "I wasn't certain about him at all when your father brought you back from Nevarra with a mabari in tow, but he's a good boy, aren't you?"_

_Noble whined in agreement, licking Eleanor's hand as she smiled._

_"Mother . . . what's happening? Your armor, your bow . . ."_

_"A woman must be _many_ things, Gwyneth, as I learned during the Orlesian occupation. Howe's men have turned traitor on us, though I know not whether they received orders from their Lord or not. I cannot fathom _why_ the arl would do this! But the sigils on their armor are unmistakable." Eleanor scoffed. "They think to catch us unawares, but I have some skills as yet unseen at any Spring Salon." She shook her daughters shoulder lightly as Gwyneth's eyes had begun to take on the listless look of someone in shock. "Sweetheart, listen, you have your armor here still?"_

_Gwyneth nodded, feeling like she was caught in a nightmare. "Yes, in my trunk."_

_"Good, I hate to tell you this, you cannot know how much. But you'll need to get your armor on, and the Thorns too. If we go into the halls defenseless, we'll die, and we must find your father."_

Gwyneth blinked away her tears, the skin beneath them raw and puffy from her crying. She touched the bass relief, fingers tracing the contours of her mothers etched figure. Eleanor Davenport had been stronger than anyone knew, stronger than even Gwyneth knew . . . _but in the end, it was her weakness that killed her mother, the weakness of love._

Her feet stumbled over a rumpled carpet, stinking with mildew, and as she bent to free her foot from the entanglement, her fingers felt the small etched 'c' in the stone. So small as to be invisible, unless you knew it was there. _'Surely, they must have found my cache, there's no way that . . .' _but as she pulled up the loose stone, to reveal the hidden compartment, everything was still there. Cailan's letters were bundled at the top with a long dried up stick of cinnamon under the twine. Bittersweet sadness clutched her heart as she took those correspondences, so full of warmth, or so she had thought, and held them as if she could recite the words by memory alone.

Then beneath that, her fingers encountered velvet fabric, her voice gone soft with an anguished 'Oh!' of recognition. The green cloak she drew out was small enough for a young boy, the Cousland insignia proud and bold on the back of it, two crossed lances making up the clasp. It was to be Oren's. She'd made it for him, she could even recall the notion that had hit her when she'd done so, working diligently at the needlepoint on the back. Gwyneth had wanted her nephew to have something that marked him as a Cousland, hating the idea of his foreign mother filling his head with nonsense. She could remember how much she'd loathed Oriana in those days, and felt some semblance of shame now that her sister-by-marriage was dead, by the hands of those that had also assassinated her poor little nephew.

Her mother had wanted her to give the cloak to Oren after she went personally to see Oriana and invited her to a noble function, though Gwyneth could no longer recall which one, there had been so many. Gwyneth had agreed, but in her spite, never went, and so, never gave her nephew the cloak, so there it was, held in her hands as Gwyneth began to cry so hard that she shook, holding it to her chest.

"I'm sorry, sweet boy, I'm so sorry!"

Oren lived for tales of dragon slayers and heroes of old, even at three, already so quick of wit. He'd asked his father to bring him back a sword when Fergus returned from Ostagar. But Fergus' return came long after his boy was already dead, murdered with a sword that he'd never be old enough to wield, and while he had been killed, his aunt was sleeping . . . _'sleeping!'_

Gwyneth's rage then, was at herself, and she would've thrown the cloak in her anger, but it was too precious a thing now, clutched with Cailan's letters, like memory alone could bring back her nephew. He'd seemed so clear, there in the great hall, where Gwyneth had hallucinated, still unsure what had caused that. Perhaps her home was haunted now, the ghosts she feared more than just a metaphor.

A voice from the darkness, and the path of her thoughts had her frightened enough that she screamed.

"I thought I'd find you here."

She smiled briefly. "How?"

"Where else would you disappear to? Sister, must you be so foolish as to wander about without any guards? You know better than that, and I'm not so sure the structure is sound any more. Howe's men did only what they had to in order to keep it up through the winter, I'm sure."

Fergus had his own lantern and he set it down on the ground as he stared at his sister. Noticing the state of her, reaching out to comfort her, but she shook her head. "What is that?" He motioned at her bundle.

"A cloak . . . for Oren. I was being a bitch and I never . . ." She hiccuped in her grief. "I never gave it to him because I was in a tear over your wife." The former Lady of Highever smiled in pain. "You must hate me."

"Hate you? Gwyny-Gwyn, you're my sister, I could never _hate_ you." He came closer, wrapping arms around her to hug her to his chest, resting his chin on her shoulder. "Besides, if people's hatred was fuelled only because their sibling was being a piss-head, there would be no love in families at all."

Her laugh was short and brittle, but at least it was there. "You . . . you take this . . . I can't keep it."

Fergus gently grasped it in his own fingers, wondering at it, eyes stinging at the memory of his boy, his only son, taken too soon by men with no more honor than the arl that commanded their evil work. "Thank you." His throat constricted until his words were a croak.

"Have you . . . have you gone to see their . . . _your_ room?" Gwyneth asked.

He nodded slowly, folding his son's cloak so he could tuck it safely beneath his arm. "Yes, of course I did. After you told me I . . . it was one of the first rooms I went to. One of those men had a local whore in there with him. I spared _her_, but I gutted_ him _as he screamed." The vicious cast to his face was made macabre by the flickering light from their lanterns, but behind those severe lines was heart ache.

Gwyneth saw it for what it was, because it was hers to bear as well.

"I mean, my men and I went through here like cleansing fire, killing every last one of those bastards! After you told me everything, my mind was set." His voice rumbled against her back as he hugged her to him again, pretending not to notice as she tucked the bundle of letters under her arm and against her side. Fergus knew what they were, but there was no good to come from telling his sister to get rid of them.

She shook her head. "No, I didn't. Not _everything_." Gwyneth turned in his arms to look at her brother's confused face. "Come, we have to go down to the pantry. There's something you have to see."

"What? What could I possibly have to see that I haven't already?"

"Where our mother and father died."

Theirs was not unlike a funeral procession as the last two nobles of House Cousland made their way through the dark halls, their lanterns casting orange panels against the leaking walls. Down and down again they went, until they stood in the largest of the castle's pantries

Gwyneth looked for a long time, unmoving, until Fergus nudged her. She was staring at a large dark stain on the floor, and her brother's eyes followed.

"I thought the bastards had spilled wine in here . . . but . . . its not wine, is it?" Fergus could barely speak for the sense of dread he felt, made worse when Gwyneth shook her head.

"No, it isn't." She walked over to it, getting down on her knees to run her hands across the mark. "It's Father's blood, maybe Mother's too."

"Maker . . ." The new teryn whispered to himself, chest feeling hollowed out.

"I got out. There was a secret door behind that row of shelves there . . . and I . . . " Gwyneth began, mind lost to her memories of the last time she'd seen her parents alive.

_"No! I won't go! I won't do it!" She shrieked, railing against the arms of that damned Grey Warden that had her. "Mother, Mother please, this is madness! We can get out, we can _all _get out!" She wrenched away from the man who called himself Duncan. He'd promised to get her out, as long as her father would agree that she was to join that idiotic order. He needed a good politician, he'd said, needed one for negotiations. _'How could Father do this?'

_Her mother smiled up at her, through the tears running freely down her dirtied cheeks, kneeling in the pool of blood beside her husband. "I cannot leave your father's side, one day you'll understand why."_

_"Explain it to me _now_, explain to me how you can _abandon _me like this!" She screamed as Duncan went to reach for her again._

_"Pup, listen to your mother now. If you don't go, you'll die with us, and there will be no one to tell your brother what happened, no one that he will trust. Go with Ser Duncan, like a good girl. Do your duty to your family." Bryce Couslands words were firm, but his love for her was bright in his eyes, their color the same as hers._

_When guilt didn't work, she tried begging. "Please, you can't leave me! Not like this! I'm not ready! Please!"_

_"Your Grace, we are running out of time." The Grey Warden glanced nervously behind him, and Gwyneth detested him for the interruption._

_The teryna looked up at her daughter, both of them sobbing. "I thought to have no more children, and then, there you were." She'd told that story a thousand times, but this would be her last. "Beautiful and healthy and perfect, despite everything. You were my miracle, Sweetheart, and you shall always be. I knew then that you were meant for such great things, and now, you have to go and fulfill that."_

_Noble whined beside his mistress, the mabari as true a protector as any knight. Gwyneth wanted to sick him on that fucking Warden, but she was too upset. "No! Not without you!"_

_"We love you, and your brother, we will always love you . . . and now you must leave." Bryce took his wife's hand, shuddering through his pain, but trying to be brave as they both watched her go, Duncan dragging her down the passage at her father's command, even as she shrieked her denial until her parents were out of sight._

Fresh tears ran down her cheeks as she told Fergus everything, her brother trying to fight off his own tears, but they came anyway.

"After all of Mother's talk about marriage and not falling in love with your husband, there, at the end, she had. She loved Father and he loved her, I could see it, and it was that love that killed them. That love that was the reason they abandoned me." Gwyneth sobbed, shaking as she curled up on the floor, barely noticing as Fergus got down beside her, holding her. "I loved them, _so much_, and they left me, to be taken away by that bloody Warden while they just . . . just stayed behind and died! _ For nothing_! He didn't even tell them that 'I' could die just from their joining ritual."

Fergus stroked her back, letting her cry.

"I love them still, but I want to hate them, I wanted to hate them right from the moment they left me. I couldn't, so I hated Duncan instead. Tried to kill him even, a few times. Noble made the attempt in my honor once. Somehow we all survived to Ostagar." She laughed and it was an awful sound, full of raw heart break

A long time passed before Fergus spoke, holding his sister while she shook in her grief, letting her words sink deep. "Gwyn . . . 'I' love you, and I'm not going to abandon you. Not _ever_. If you leave me, I'll just follow you up to the Maker's side, and if _I_ die, then . . . well I'll just haunt you and drive you to brink of insanity."

It was a cursory effort on his part, made so by his own grieving, but Gwyneth smiled. "You had better." She knew love was a poison, a weakness that had taken her mother from her, and she vowed she'd not fall prey to it again. Standing at the precipice with Cailan, letting Morrigan perform that ritual, those things were bad enough, but as Fergus held her and comforted her, Gwyneth thought that maybe, not all love was so very terrible. She remembered her darling Noble, wanting to weep anew. _Yes, perhaps, _some _love was worth it._

* * *

He was sniffling, nose dripping as he sat in the chill, heavy cloak around him. It was summer, but you wouldn't know it from the damp cold that had seeped into the Coastlands during a misty day, and the evening was no better. His wife would be after him later, if he caught a cold, he knew, but he had to come see him, had to pay his respects.

"Ser Boughton said you'd come up here." Her voice was quiet, but in the stillness of the graveyard, it was as loud as thunder.

"You didn't have to come back here, Gwyneth, I know it can't be easy, and you've had a hard day." Alistair could almost feel her presence behind him, and it made him turn as he rose from the ground where he'd been kneeling, in front of Noble's grave.

"Thank you for the concern, but . . . well, it's a lie to say I'm alright, but I am well enough to be standing here and not fall to pieces. My mother used to think that sometimes crying was good for the soul, maybe she was right." Gwyneth rubbed her hands, though she'd returned to the manor home they were staying in to fetch warmer attire, after Fergus and herself had calmed enough to go back into the city.

It was a blessing that there were loyal city lords that could offer them rooms, a better comfort than even the finest inn. A home was always better. She glanced back at what remained of_ hers_, feeling a strange sense of completion battling for pride of place with the sorrow. _Going back . . . perhaps that had been necessary, being able to accept what her life had become._ She thought on how she'd handled being accosted by would-be rapists, the first time when Noble had saved her, and the second when she'd killed the man herself. Life had left its mark on her, there was no question, and that she could look back on those things with perspective instead of fear, was a testament to all her parents had instilled in her.

She loved them, she resented them . . . and she was grateful to them. Just as she was for the last of the Theirins standing in that graveyard with her, though she had not often let him know that. Gwyneth moved closer, reaching out to take his hand, he seemed surprised, but eased into it soon enough.

"Came to pay your respects, I see. Alistair . . . I feel I need to apologize, for asking you to stay behind during his funeral. Noble was _your _companion as well, and I guess I was just too upset to remember that." She sniffed rubbing at her nose, glancing up suspiciously as he did the same. "Are you coming down with a cold?"

The faint reproach in her voice made him smile, knowing she was going to get after him about it made it no less amusing when Gwyneth only proved that he _did _know her, after all. "No, it's just a chill. Look, about the funeral, it's . . . I understood, I still do, but I needed to say my own goodbye."

He fumbled in the pocket of his fine surcoat, the thick fur edging reminding him of the mabari he mourned, as he pulled out dried meat. "Some bits of jerky. I guess I got into the habit of putting them there. He was always after me for treats, especially when you weren't looking, sneak that he was." He set them on the ground before the gravestone, curling his hand back into his pocket, his fingers tightening on Gwyneth's.

She stood there with him in silence for a time, before moving a slightly damp bundle from under her other arm. "I wanted to give you this, though granted a misty cemetery isn't the most approriate place."

He smiled anyway, recognizing the fabric. "You finished my cloak."

"I did, dragon and all. I know you aren't well fussed about it, but I had to give you_ something_, since it _is_ your birthday."

The shock on his face was plain, even if the dimness of Gwyneth's lantern, now sat in the grass beside his own, didn't make him all that visible. "My birthday? You . . . you_ remembered_."

"Of course I remembered. I'd not be much of a politician if I forgot things like that, though to be honest, it did slip my mind a few times today. You said you didn't want a celebration . . ."

"I still don't." He warned, not liking the twist her mouth took up.

"Of course, but I couldn't let it pass without event_ entirely. _So here you have them." She leaned into his side, her first warm smile of the day gracing her pallid features.

"Them? What's. . . . oh." Inside the cloaked, wrapped with it, was a thick small carved box of mahogany, laurels and leaves engraved on the top. The lid came open with a small creak, and inside were two figurines, a man and woman in finery, locked in a dancing pose, he went to pick them out only to find they were attached, his fingers brushing against a curious small gear at the edge of the box. "What is this?"

"A fine thing from Tevinter, an invention of their talented crafters. They call it a 'music box' You wind that gear there and the figures dance, tines inside it making a song until the gears need to be wound again and then it stops." She shrugged. "I'd forgotten all about it, Fergus found it, said someone had sold it to a shop owner in the city after they ransacked the castle. It was still there somehow. It used to be mine."

Alistair's eyes seemed dark as he turned his head to study her face. "And you're giving it to _me_? Why?"

A sigh and she shrugged. "My mother had a lovely voice for singing, so soft and relaxing, clearly a trait I did _not_ inherit. Anyway, she and Father went on a trip to Orlais together shortly before my fifth birthday, some trade negotiations and my mother was to also arrange a solstice, she was quite good at arranging parties, but I didn't want her to leave. Either of them really, so she had this box ordered especially for me, knowing well in advance that she'd be gone. So at least I'd have a song to listen to before I was put to bed." A fond smile made her thin lips go soft. "To be honest, it was a bit eerie of a tune, which I don't think was the intention. 'Girl of the Coast' it's called, my mother likely thought it fitting. But it did help when I was missing her at night."

Alistair quirked one dark blonde brow, still confused. "If it means something to you, I still don't know why you'd give it away."

Gwyneth stared at him, having thought about it for a good long while, and now faced with an answer she knew she'd be pressed for, she felt strangely shy.

"I miss them, my feelings for my parents are . . . complicated, to say the least, but I do miss them. Terribly so, and there are times that I can't bear it. Today, going back inside the castle was . . . as awful as I'd imagined. I'd not wish that on anyone . . ."

Alistair tried to comfort her, but she waved him away.

"And yet, I had a moment today, thinking of what I could get you, besides that cloak, and I realized that as awful as it was to have lost them, I am grateful to have had my parents in my life. I also realized that _you_ didn't have that. Arl Eamon, he raised you as best he could without arousing suspicion, I'm sure, but still he was limited. You didn't have a mother to sing lullabies to you at night, you didn't have a father that brought you bon bons back from Orlais, packing them carefully so they wouldn't melt. You had it better than most young boys in your situation, but you still didn't have what _I_ did."

He was watching her so intently that she felt uncomfortable, and she shrugged in an effort to remind herself it was nothing so severe. "I thought, I'd give you that, some piece of my own childhood, so you might have something from a noble child's life. Silly, I suppose, stupid even . . . but I . . ."

He interrupted her, his hand curling around her wrist, smiling, almost beaming at her. "It's not stupid or silly, it's . . . it's the sweetest thing you've ever given me."

She shrugged again, refusing to look at him for a time, embarassed, even if it had seemed like a good idea at the time. "Well, I'm glad then, but, I also got you these." Gwyneth took a small wrapped pouch from a pocket in her cloak, holding it out to him.

Alistair had a moment where he was worried it was black lotus again, but the pouch was too heavy and full for that. "What's . . ." He opened it to find a half dozen medium sized rounds of chocolate.

"Bon bons. Granted, not 'from' Orlais, but made with an Orlesian recipe. They sell them at this lovely little shop down Grand Avenue. They specialize in chocolate concoctions. My father called them 'choclatiers', though the only thing I know is that I'd be quite fat if I bought everything in that shop that looked good." She nudged him. "Go on, have one."

He bit into one slowly, almost as if it was going to bite him, murmuring around the chocolate in appreciation as the velvet smooth candy melted in his mouth, the cream filling tasting like the Maker's own Heaven. "Wow! These are . . ." He paused at a loss for words as Gwyneth laughed.

"I know. They are exceedingly delicious, but I only got you a half dozen, any more than that and you'd be too heavy for the horses to carry."

"Someday I probably will, there's too much food around a man when he's king. On the plus side, there are a lot of pretty girls." He smirked, baiting Gwyneth, wanting to keep her from falling into melancholy again.

"Oh? I hadn't noticed." She sniffed, secretly delighted at his indignant squawk that she hadn't taken his bait. "Let's head back, it's getting chilly."

"Wait, I want to hear this." He wound the gear of the box and let Gwyneth lean into him, as they warmed eachother with their proximity.

The tines clicked back, he could hear them, and when he let go, the figures began to dance to an eerie metallic tune. Yet for the slight creepiness of it, he tried to imagine what Gwyneth's mother may have sounded like, singing something like that. Alistair had no idea, not even anything to base it on, so he listened to the box instead, rubbing Gwyneth's arm as the other was pressed into his side, trying to keep her warm.

"I like it." He murmured as she shook her head.

"No you don't, its creepy."

"A little . . . but I like that you gave it to me, and its sad, but pretty too." He paused, cocking his head at her. "Like you." He leaned down to plant a small kiss on her cheek, not giving her time to react. "Thank you."

She was more than a little surprised by the gesture of affection. Alistair himself could be quite affectionate, she'd seen evidence of that, but such wasn't often present in their own relationship. "For what? It's not much of a birthday."

"But you remembered me. After everything you went through today, you remembered me. It means a lot." Alistair could tell she was getting embarassed and flustered by his gratitude, unused to either his affection, or her own even rarer kindness, but both were things that had started to become more frequent. The past few days had been sad things indeed, but for the hope of finding anew a friendship he'd thought permanently lost, he was happy.


	58. Chapter 58: Beginning of the End

**Disclaimer:** _"Dragon Age: Origins" and all its expansions and additional content is the property of Bioware and EA Games. Large portions of written content within the game, as well as Dragon's Age: The Stolen Throne, and Dragon's Age: Calling, are the creation of David Gaider. Original scenarios and characters are used under the creative license of the writer, ItalianEmpress1985. No profit is being made and the following story is for entertainment purposes only._

**Words From the Author:**_ Another late chapter . . . sometimes I kind of hate and love the Holidays with equal measure. That and chaos breeds writer's block, so my apologies._

_When I had writer's block, I was goofing off on Azalea Dolls (Empress aren't you too old to play with dolls? No. :P) There are now several Tudors and Game of Thrones versions from both Dragon Age and the Fate and Forbearance world on my Deviant Art profile, if anyone's curious. I've linked to a few in my profile, and if you are interested the rest can be found in that same gallery. Nothing to get excited about, but it was VERY fun and I thought I'd share._

_Mentioned in this chapter is the infamous Remigold dance, no one ever said what it entailed, so now we have 'the Empress' version of that dance. ;) Plus, it is performed to Highever's own Battle Hymn which was largely inspired by Nox Arcana's 'Highland Storm' I'll forever think of that as the official theme music for House Cousland. "NEVER CONCEDE THE HIGHGROUND!" Which is apropos I think, since that family has traditionally _lived_ on the 'high ground' :p Anyway, you can find a link to that theme in my profile, listed in extras under 'musical inspiration'_

_As musical inspiration goes, I also listened to the eerie and deceivingly titled 'Warrior of Light' from the Game of Thrones Season Two soundtrack, which was played several times, but also during a creepy 'birth' scene, and it really gave me goosebumps while I was writing the last two sections of the chapter. That also is listed under extras in 'musical inspiration'_

_Another thing, is that the ring in this chapter is from the companion in question in-game and is given to that companion's PC love interest, if the in-game romance goes well. I've modified both its use and the reason for gifting it, but it is the same ring._

_Now, coming to a close on this LONG note, this is the final chapter for THIS Part One of Fate and Forbearance, so you know I've saved some good stuff for you (well, maybe not 'good' in the traditional sense) but I hope you find it worth the wait, and I like closing out 2012 with this last chapter. Remember to keep an eye out for Part Two: Fate and Forbearance: Power and Prophecy in 2013. So either keep me on author alert and FFnet SHOULD send out a notice that there's a new story, or just check in after the first of the year. Though I'm going to take some time to do a run through of part one for continuity checks before I put a bow on this baby, but its always easier to write intro chapters than finales ;)_

_This chapter is quite long, but its my gift to you, both for the holidays and for sticking it out with me even as we were waiting for more chapters. Happy Holidays to all of you, and thank you from the bottom of my heart for your interest, reviews and support. Urthemiel may think he's top banana around here, but its you ladies and gents that are a pretty big deal. So thank you very much again, and be sure to stop in to part two after this part one finale, if you're still enjoying the story._

_Thank you for stopping by, and watch out for low flying dragons._

* * *

_**Chapter Fifty Eight:**_

**Beginning of the End**

* * *

_Why did fate deceive me?_

_Everything's turned out so wrong._

_- __Within Temptation_

* * *

**June 23'rd, 9:31, Dragon Age**

**B**right flags festooned the marketplace, one of several in the city of Highever, the crowds gathering for the midday rush. The city docks were swarming with activity, the waters around them populated heavily that day with twin masthead brigantines from Rivain, and smaller cargo runners that had to be maneuvered quite carefully between the larger vessels. Anxious citizens waited on the quays, only moving aside when wagons full of cargo almost ran them over, as the interested shoppers all tried to get a first look at the newest goods.

Street vendors brought rolling carts of handicrafts and treats, the scent of sweet rolls and candies and salted meat all mingling together, nearly surpassing the collected stench of gathered citzenry, a cover of perfumed oils doused liberally over sweating bodies. Only the hard laborers seemed to lack a care for odor, pressing onward as they hauled carts of rock up the steep street, sweat pouring from sooty brows. Rope connected them, a large pulley wheel dug into the cobbles four blocks upward.

The teyrn wanted his stone and there was nothing good waiting for those that didn't deliver, and honest hard work was met with the much more preferable reward of good coin.

Such was the whisper on the streets, moving about cobbles and store-fronts like a breeze of gossip unbound. _Where had Teyrn Fergus hidden the family coffers? Surely Howe's men would've found it? _Yet, the premiere family maintained their reputation as the wealthiest nobles in Ferelden, though now there were just the two of them. It was a mystery surely, and as young Harold Hewitt, reminding himself constantly that it was to be Harold _Tannen_ now, tried not to listen, the murmurs reached his ears as he wove his way about a city as foreign to him as the wealth the people discussed.

Highever was so big, the terraced streets making the boy feel as if a misstep would send him rolling down the levels of the city until he landed at the docks, dropping off into the sea to be forgotten. Carved ages beyond any recollection past the words in history books, to mimic a giant stairway leading to the great castle, gave it an orderly appearance from far off. Once you were immersed in Highever's streets, however, it was all too easy to get turned around and quite terribly lost.

He wrapped a fist around the polished leather of his sword belt, the short blade itself tapping against his leg from inside the sheath. Everything had been sized down for him, his sword a half-length made of fine steel with silverite filigree, his suit shortened to half-mail over boiled leather, festooned with an engraved willow tree, that Her Majesty had explained was now to be his family sigil.

_'Its important to remember who we are , Master Harold, _very_ important.'_

Her keen eyes sharp on him as she demanded his complacency and he was all too willing to oblige the queen. Harold imagined that if he didn't, things wouldn't go so well for him. He wasn't a stupid boy, his real father, not the fabricated parent his rescuers had turned into his father, had often schooled him as best as he could.

Sometimes he felt strangled by the new role he had to play. In Greenfell, he'd been a farmer's boy, with the warmth and security of a good home, the gentle love of his mother, her voice lulling him to sleep in a bed that had been Harold's own. His brother George told him grand tales that kept his mind turning until the morning bells from the chantry rang out, and Harold was expected to help in the many chores around the farm. It was a simple life, he knew that even at his ten years, knew that without being told, but it was a good one, and now . . . it was gone, and there was no one to mourn his family. Instead they offered condolences on the man they believed to be his father, Mayor Tannen, a man that Harold barely knew, while his _actual_ father was forgotten.

It made him want to cry, but while Greenfell had let him remain a boy, growing at a rate as slow and nurtured as the beets his family farm had taken pride in, Highever was different. The city demanded that he grow up. So he stifled his tears and tried to do what was expected of him.

A set of painted ladies sneered at him as he turned a corner, leaning against the back of a building with smoke and music leaking from a half-cracked door. One reached out playfully with a gloved hand. "Look at the pretty boy run, so_ fast_, we like them_ fast_. You come and see me in a few years when you've gotten bigger, pretty boy."

Harold ignored them, booted feet hitting the stones with as much speed as he could muster. He nearly tumbled into a man carrying a stack of books, the tomes falling to slap their bound covers against the cobbles.

"Hey, slow down ya half wit!"

The man screamed and Harold would've helped anyway, except he was late to the practice yard already, having slept through the chantry bells in the eighth morning hour. There were other boys that he was supposed to meet in the courtyard outside the bunkhouse, where his bed for the night had been. That would've been much closer, but by the time Harold had risen, the courtyard was empty of all but passing vendors and the customers that had gotten out of bed before the noon hour. Now he was forced to make the trek up to the yards on his own, hoping he didn't get lost.

Castle Cousland stood high on the cliffs, a stony husk of a beast overlooking its city, and served as a reminder of his direction. The yards themselves had been kept intact, left alone for the most part, just as much as the city was left to its own devices. The people were loyal enough to the Cousland family, but there were whispers from the other boys in the bunkhouse, that the people had nary blinked an eye when Rendon Howe was named their liege lord instead, just went on with their lives like nothing had happened.

_'That old arl, he did nay nothin' to the city neither, weren't stupid my pap says, knew that the city was better let be. Did a number on the castle though. Must've hated Teyrn Cousland somethin' fierce. Probably wanted the money to himself, I wager.' _

A fourteen year old boy by the name of Gus, though Harold didn't think that was his real name, had gone on half the night, until the ward of the bunkhouse had come in, blustering at the lot of them to go to sleep.

Harold had kept to his silence, but he listened, like his father had always told him to. _ 'A wise man knows when it is better to listen to other men flap their gums, while keeping his still and silent. You learn a lot more from the guff of others than from your own.'_

He was thinking back on that, concentrating on the lie his past had been molded into, when he slammed into a rolling cart, so hard he nearly saw stars, falling back on his haunches in the road. Before he could hoist himself up, a robed fellow had hauled him to his feet, peering with beady eyes from beneath a ratty hood.

It seemed far too hot that day for robes, and amongst the finely dressed nobility and the proud peasantry and merchants, his hard-scrabble appearance was even more out of place. Perhaps the man was from the chantry, some of the affirmed brothers and sisters took no break from their vestments. Harold even wondered if they bathed in them.

"S-sorry, ser, I wasn't watching . . ." The boy stopped talking as the robed man grasped his shoulders, his voice raspy.

"You a pageboy to the Couslands?"

"I . . . I guess so." He wasn't sure what a pageboy was, but he_ was _one of their squires now.

"You will take this package to the queen, put it in _her_ hands, and no servant or those of any other. My employer bade me to take it, but they will not let me on the house grounds." The man set a small pouch of coins in the lad's palm, looking around him as if paranoid. "See it done or she who hired me will know, and hers is not a wrath you'd be wanting."

Harold didn't even have the chance to say anything, and the rasping man disappeared into the crowd as abruptly as he'd appeared. In his hand was the pouch of coins, and another smaller parcel, wrapped in thick cloth. He called out to the man, but he was gone from sight.

Today had not turned out as Harold had imagined.

* * *

Fergus' thumb stroked over the laurel pins he'd put on his son's cloak, feeling the bumps in the engraved metal. As soon as Gwyneth had given it to him, just the fabric in his hands sent a cold shiver of grief up his spine, mingled with the pride he'd had in his first born son. His bright eyed, sharp minded boy.

The teyrn closed his eyes, feeling an ache behind them that no amount of biting down on king's foil leaves would get rid of. "I'd kill them all, again and again and again, if I could, my boy. I'd butcher them while the others begged, for taking you away from me." He whispered, mind tortured with a grieving that had never let him go, ever since that fateful day in The Wilds where he'd been told his was family was murdered.

All but his Gwyn, and her union had muffled their closeness. Once, even when they were at each other's throats, Fergus would have always remained his little sister's gallant hero. Now they all had different concerns and the days for heroics were dwindling fast.

"Your Grace!" A loud voice from outside his chamber, and Fergus glowered, setting the cloak aside on the dresser.

"Yes, what is it?"

"Begging your pardon My Grace, but His Majesty is waiting for you in the solarium, as you asked."

"Of course, inform him that I shall be there shortly." Fergus had almost forgotten he was supposed to meet with his brother-by-marriage, and though he couldn't say he particularly enjoyed the prospect of the conversation they would have to have, it couldn't be avoided.

Lord Deniol Brynmor and his lady wife, Eirlys, were part of a depleted number of local nobility left after Rendon Howe's 'cleansing' of Cousland loyalists. They were a true hearted pair, but knew enough of the political game to use that understanding to stay alive, long enough to enjoy their _true_ liege lord's return. For them, Fergus was most grateful, not only for the use of their home so that he and his sister had a decent place to stay while Castle Cousland was rebuilt, but for their discretion as well. Remembering that however, did not mean that he trusted them implicitly. His father had trusted Rendon with his life, and that, as it turned out, was a deadly folly, and one that Fergus had no intention of repeating.

So as much as he didn't feel so masculine in a room filled with flora and gurgling fountains, it was those same fountains that would help to murmur their conversation, while providing a room that wouldn't seem suspicious to their hosts.

His mother, Teyrna Eleanor, had favored such indoor gardens, especially when the weather grew more chill and she could sit in a heated room, with those strange red leafed things she'd called poinsettias, and watch the snowfall in comfort. The teyrna had made solariums popular in Highever noble homes and the trend was spreading, though the Blight had put a halt to most trends for a time.

He walked in on the king nursing a sore finger, standing next to a flowering cactus, an unfriendly plant from the deserts of Seheron, if it weren't for Eleanor Cousland's solariums, it likely wouldn't have flourished. Fergus grinned. "Cacti needles can be as sharp as they sound. Not all things that are pleasing to the eye are docile to the touch."

Alistair grimaced, taking his index finger from his mouth. "Apparently not." He gave the small potted cactus an offending glare before dropping down onto a cushioned stone bench. "Your sister is all up in arms about a Feast of Celebration or something like that, when before we got here she seemed to be in hurry to make this a short stay so we could travel on to Amaranthine."

Diplomacy aside, Fergus scoffed. "You can't honestly think I'd take _your_ side over _hers_ and talk her out of it?"

"_Some_ people may think I am simple minded, but I'm not." Blue eyes glared in the teyrn's direction. "Of course I don't think that, but my queen is tight lipped about her party planning, if that's what it is, and I was hoping you'd give me some insight, man to man . . . that and the fact that I've made you the highest ranking member of my privy council." Alistair spoke over Fergus' shock. "Before you say it, I'm not completely against sponsoring you on the council, we don't have to get along for that decision to make sense, but it wasn't _my_ idea. Gwyneth insisted."

The teyrn snorted in humor. "Of course she did." He gestured to the paned windows, and what lay past them. "The people, those who we rule and who by our very station we are meant to serve? They need a celebration of sorts, now that their teyrn has returned and the last of Howe's men have been brought to justice."

Whenever Alistair began to think the snobbery of the Couslands might not be as consuming as he'd first imagined, one of the siblings would say something to change his mind. "You mean they need a reminder as to why they should adore you and celebrating is meant for them, but really it's for you to congratulate yourself."

Silver eyes glowered with a sharpness that had not been dulled by a sleepless night. "You are an impertinient ass, has anyone ever told you that?"

"Impertinent? Not often, but an ass? Quite frequently." Alistair grinned, proud that he was finding his footing with the two nobles he now reluctantly called family.

Fergus rolled his eyes sitting down beside the king with his elbows resting on his knees, hands folded together. He took a deep breath, before staring the man down. "Look, this position, my duty to the people and to the Crown is important to me. We Couslands have always taken such matters seriously. You may note that we are known for many things, but loyalty to the country's rightful sovereign is among them. Even the very first king, your Silver Knight, _eventually_ won the Couslands' loyalty."

"I have read a few books about it, you know." Alistair snipped, earning himself only another glare.

Fergus took a deep breath, his next words coming through clenched teeth. "I'm not happy with this match between you and Gwyneth. That much is plain, but she's got one over me in that I can't think of one with a better rank. So here we find ourselves, related by law and our responsibilities. I_ am _the only teyrn Ferelden has left and you, for good or ill, are Ferelden's king. I'll not shirk the responsibilties I have to the King of Ferelden, the way old Mac Tir did."

"So this is . . . what? Some kind of peace offering?" Alistair smiled broadly as if he'd won something, his lips turning down at the other man's scoff.

"I'm Fergus Cousland, I don't make milquetoast _peace offerings_." The teyrn grumbled, squaring his shoulders. "Its an _agreement_ I am making with you for the sake of the country and my sister. I accept the position on your privy council, and as such can tell you that this Feast of Celebration is rather small scale compared to most Cousland sponsored events. You ought to have been here for Gwyneth's sixteenth birthday when our father hired that travelling carnival from Nevarra." A brief grin born from memory, brought light to Fergus' face, a glimpse into the joviliaty he'd possesed before Howe's vicious attack. "It is, however, something that should promise to lift spirits and as such, the King of Ferelden has no reason to turn it down, and should certainly speak to his people today."

Alistair wasn't of the mood for fesitivities, but there didn't seem to be any choice. "Fantastic, another speech, my favorite!" Sarcastic grumbling wasn't going to save him, however. "There's really no way to get out of this, is there?"

"No, and I don't see why you would want to. Myself? Well I'll not turn down a feast and some fine entertainment." Fergus' face seemed to cloud over then, as he receeded back into less happy thoughts. "But I feel we need to speak about those things in Greenfell and take some official action here. I want that area cordoned off and have a guarded permiter set up, but I can do nothing without your consent. Though I'm certain you'd be wanting the same, but if so, we need to start moving men post haste before the citizens catch a whiff of unease. There's been far too much for them to deal with already, and if this country is going to recover in a time frame that will be of any aid at all to_ this _generation, then time itself, is of the essence and we cannot tarry."

Alistair nodded gravely. "I consent, of course, and I agree, but we don't have the numbers. You still have some of my knights in your company that you borrowed to retake Highever. I don't want to seem unfeeling here, but it looks like you have that much, at least, well in hand."

"You are wanting your men back then, to replenish your ranks before travelling on to Amaranthine?" Fergus shrugged, unable to really argue. "That's fair, I suppose, but I'd like to keep a few to maintain the king's peace if there are any riots."

"_Riots_? What on Thedas would cause_ that_? Like you said, they don't know anything having to do with banshees or any of that business we encountered. Not yet at least, and not for awhile, I _hope_."

Fergus shrugged again, though his words didn't posses the same nonchalance. "No, but they _do_ know about your plan to take down the alienage wall to put an end to elf and human segregation. A segration, I might add, that both races within the city have become accustomed to. People aren't always amicable to change, and as I'm sure you've realised by now, taking my forward thinking sister as your queen will bring change as readily as a turn in the weather. I think she's got the right mind set, as do you if you agree, my father knew that _surviva_bility was right next to _adapta_bility. However, it won't be a pleasant task to change the way Fereldans behave. Be that as it may, as the Teyrn of the Coastlands and a Bannerman to the Crown and the king's privy council, Highever must follow Denerim in this decision, and when those walls go down, you think there won't be any trouble? You'd be wrong."

The new king groused in irritated confusion. "I don't understand them! Can't they see I am trying to _help_? Maker's breath! Its a wonder anyone survived the Blight, being this stubborn! If no one changed, ever, then they'd just die off."

Fergus felt slightly sympathetic towards the younger man and briefly patted his shoulder as he stood. "And there would be the difficulty in ruling effectively. You can please some of the people all of the time, all of the people some of the time, but never _all _of the people_ all _of the time. That, and there are moments where the citizens just don't know all the hard work that is done out of their sight, to maintain the lives they assume are theirs alone, and see our rulings as intereference into their way of life. With the elves, I think they are often waiting for the other shoe to drop, as it were. To them, there's always a catch, an angle, some human waiting in alley to stab them. The humans that live on the other side of alienage walls, well, they think the city elves are a bunch of dirty thieves, who will break into their homes and infest their children with lice. Both have reasons to feel that way, but both are wrong as well, to a degree, that things can never be any different, and you need to make them see that."

Alistair rubbed his forehead as he stood next to his brother-in-law. "Yeah, no pressure or anything. I need a drink."

Fergus grinned. "That's the way, and there will be plenty of that at Gwyneth's feast."

"I thought you said it was a feast of celebration for the people of Highever?" Alistair raised a cautious brow.

"True, but you and I both know that Gwyneth will make it her own." Fergus loved his sister, but whenever the word 'party' was involved, she was next to impossible to live with until the planning was all done. This time, he thought he'd just sit at the sidelines and drink.

* * *

Stands had been set up around the practice field, a pale sun winking in and out from wispy cloud cover. It wasn't nearly as much sun, but clearly enough for Gwyneth to bring out her parasol to shelter herself from it, one long-fingered hand wrapped delicately around the handle, while the other held a fluted glass of some kind of mint brew. Alistair didn't think she needed the damn thing, she was pale enough without sheltering herself from a light tan, but Gwyneth insisted that the appearance of freckles was a possibility and would flaw her unblemished skin . . . _which apparently was highly unfashionable for nobility_.

"Can't you relax and at least _pretend _you are having a good time? This is supposed to be a _celebration_. It will hardly do to have the king looking sour faced and ill at ease." Gwyneth clucked her tongue at him, in that irritating way she had.

Alistair rolled his eyes, settling back into the cushioned chair he and his wife had been afforded on a hastily constructed balcony, over looking the rest of the stands. "Oh, the teyrn told me _more _than enough what today was supposed to be, I just can't help but think that its not an appropriate time." Right then, Fergus Cousland was dismounting from his wild-eyed stallion, having won his third joust of the day, and raking in the adoring glances of unattached noblewomen who hoped to be the next Teyrna of Highever.

Gwyneth smiled, that curve of her lips that intoned secrecy, except then, Alistair was in on it. "As I recall, someone I know rather closely, once said that if we waited for the 'right time' nothing would get done. Not the exact words, perhaps, but close enough." She sipped her drink, eyeing him over the rim, sooty lashes blinking as if they too had emotion. Gwyneth used every facet of her appearance to make a point, and that hadn't lessened over the months of their marriage.

"That had nothing to do with a _party_, it was an entirely different situation." Alistair huffed, grabbing the goblet of black ale one of the servants had brought him, the bitter taste a balm for his irritability. He'd conceded to do his part to make it seem like the Couslands' celebration had his blessing, but he didn't have to enjoy it.

Gwyneth grabbed his jaw, shaking it lightly and fussing at him with a mock pout. "You're such a grouch." Her smile was nearly as hollow as her own enjoyment, but she made a better show of pretense than her husband, thinking that maybe if she forced it enough, it might actually be true. Her eyes lit up as trumpets sounded, Alistair looking worried as she let go of his face. "Oooh, now _this_ at least you should like."

"What now?"

"Your favorite dance, The Remigold, performed to the Battle Hymn of Highever. What better way to celebrate victory and a coming golden age, than the dance to honor the beauty of Andraste and the way she held her followers in thrall of her Maker's blessing?" She smirked and collapsed her parasol, setting it beside her seat along with her glass.

Alistair scoffed, hiding his excitement. The Remigold _was_ his favorite, the title was purposely misleading, lending itself to thoughts of something elegant and refined, when in actuality it more resembled an Avaar trible dance of battle victory. "Yeah? Who's playing the part of Andraste?"

"Why, _I _am, of course. Who else?" Gwyneth gave a huff, moving away from him before his last words held her back a moment.

"I guess our ears are lucky there are no _singing_ sections to this dance, then." A cheeky grin brightened those rich brown eyes, twinkling merrily as Gwyneth shot him a rude gesture and headed off down from their balcony.

He'd never heard the Battle Hymn of Highever, though, and when the deep drums started, Alistair had a feeling that he was in for a treat, but he didn't have to let either Cousland_ know _he was enjoying himself. As if testing his resolve, Fergus took his sister's vacated seated, fresh faced from a quick basin wash down by the lists. Pulling at his gloves, he set them down beside him, picking up Gwyneth's glass to empty the remnants. Apparently there was no worry of germs shared between the siblings, just with everyone else.

"Ahh, is there anything quite like a joust to get the blood pumping?" Fergus grinned, broadly and clearly pleased with himself. Gwyneth's green ribbon of favor was yet tied to his cuff.

Alistair sighed. "Yeah, congratulations and all that." He wondered if Gwyneth had always saved her favor for her brother alone.

The teyrn winced in mock sympathy. "Oh, yes, my apologies, I'd forgotten the physicians hadn't cleared His Majesty for jousting just yet. Take care, I'm sure it's only a matter of time. You do know how it's done, I trust?"

The king didn't know how that smarmy bastard had gotten his own clearance to joust, when Fergus had been injured a lot sooner than he had. Yet, the spark of challenge in the teyrn's gaze was unmistakable, and the proud male in Alistair wouldn't turn it away. "Haven't had as much practice as you have, I'm sure. Arl Eamon didn't have me participate in the jousts at Redcliffe, with good reason probably. Don't think the nobility would've approved much, of course a crown just _makes everything better_, doesn't it?" The bitter twist to Alistair's words didn't go unnoticed, neither did the personal pride. "But I think I could manage to unhorse a . . . worthy opponent. So I'll tell you what, _brother_, as soon as I am able, we'll have our own joust. See who's lance is bigger."

Fergus smiled, the challenge accepted. "Very good. I look forward to it, as a_ friendly _competition, of course."

Alistair only smiled back. "Of course."

Their eyes were drawn in front, as the music got louder, a spokesman coming forward in Cousland colors, his voice loud enough to drown out the crowd that had gathered. "And as it was that the Maker first saw His holy bride, Saint Andraste and her voice uplifted Him into action, so we perform the Remigold today in His Honor and that of Her Most Holy, that we might receive their blessings through this year and the years to come!"

A roar from the crowds as he went on. "With the blessing of the slayer of dragons, warrior of the Blight most feared, conquerer of the foul beast of Denerim's bane, savior from the foul misdeeds of the corrupt, and defender of maidens' virture from one side of Ferelden to the other, your one, your only . . . Great Majesty, Alistair Theirin, the Drrragon King!" He rolled the title dramaticaly, loud as the people who chanted it, caught up in the excitement.

Alistair's face almost went colorless in shock. "She didn't! She_ did_! She told him to use that title!"

Fergus smirked, calling for a refill of mint julep. "Of course she did. Gwyneth always knew how to rile people."

The king could remember all too well how she'd 'riled' him up, more so of late, and could only nod in agreement, standing, despite his immense embarassment, to the cheering of the crowd. He waved, clearing his throat when Fergus nudged his back, standing beside him.

"Ahem! Good people of Highever, citizens of Ferelden, this day is for you, as is every day that we take back our country and make Ferelden a place our children can be proud of." He raised his glass to the crowd, grateful that he'd prepared a speech, just in case. "To Ferelden and the future!"

Fergus whispered a 'not bad' before clearing his throat. "As I sat astride, at the gates to Highever, ready to reclaim it from the befouled hands of the men serving the corrupt Rendon Howe, it was the faith I had in you, my people, that inspired me and brought us all here today. Standing proud in victory, for our great legacy and the future that we will shape with the quality Highever has always demanded. My father, the late and very great, Bryce Cousland, loved this city, and knew we would be the heralds of a new age. It is in honor of that new age that I wish to share a celebration of all we have accomplished, and invite you to eat, drink, be merry and enjoy a hell of a show today!" He lips turned up in a large grin at the happy cheer that followed. "We are pleased to host the Crown, in all its new glory, and know that the standards to which the citizens of the Coastlands have held to, shall be maintained. Long live the king, the queen and the people of this great country!"

The spokesman stepped forward onto his small mobile dais, raising his arms to shout through the funnel he'd made of his hands. "Performing as the sacred Bride of the Maker, is your very own Diamond of Highever, your beloved queen and mine, Her Majesty, Gwyneth Theirin!"

Already the dancers had gathered, with the queen at their front, poised and ready. The white of her Andraste-inspired garb and the head dress she'd donned, caught the light and made her face hard to see, but it was still clearly her. Alistair squinted into the light as he took a seat with his brother-in-law. It was the first time he could remember that Gwyneth had publicly been referred to as a Theirin and not a Cousland . . . it was strangely sobering.

"It is without further ado, that House Cousland proudly presents to you, The Remigold!" At those words, the spokesman and his dais were quickly removed from the field as the dancers assembled. The line of drummers were behind them, sat in rows off to the side, with the fiddlers slightly elevated and a few men carrying instruments that Fergus would later indentify as bagpipes.

A hush fell over the crowds as everyone listened to the heightened sounds of the battle hymn in all its live glory. Alistair sat, watching the Remigold with new eyes. He could say a lot of things about his wife, good and bad, but there was no question that she knew how to arrange a dance and that she herself could dance went _with_out saying.

She bent at the waist, moving her body around in contortions that put him to mind of fighting the high dragon up in the Frostback Mountains.

The only way Gwyneth ever bested anyone in melee combat, relied heavily on trickery and evasion (and with Zevran's tutoring, the occasional poison), her actual swordcraft still left a lot to be desired, but her ability to run and twist her body had saved them on a few notable occasions. The dragon that had been worshipped as a 'reborn Andraste' was one such instance. Alistair's long sword lost amidst the cobbles as the huge drake had knocked them all into the rubble of the temple ruins. Gwyneth's twin short swords were still at her back, but the idea of _her_ taking them up against a dragon half the size of a temple dome, was absurd.

Alistair, as much as he didn't exactly want to, was far better suited to the task, but not with his long sword twelve feet away, and the dragon's massive tail knocking loose stones all around them. There had been Gwyneth, in a rare show of battlefield bravery, in those days before vengeance fuelled bloodlust has taken such a grip on her.

_They'd looked between them, the dragon roaring as everyone tried to assemble a plan from where they were taking refuge, seperate from eachother, but in shouting distance. Gwyneth's eyes had been wide and fearful, but as she caught sight of Alistair, she had looked to him with something else brewing in those eerie silver irises of hers._

_"Can you get under her belly? Maybe Morrigan or Wynne can . . ." The stone steeple of a tower came crashing down barely four feet away, small bits of rubble flying over head as Gwyneth cringed down, Noble at her side and taking his own shelter under one of her arms. "Maybe they can provide a distraction!"_

_"Maybe, but we have a slight problem there!" He had to shout his words as much as she did, and could only hope that Dragons didn't understand Fereldish. "I don't have my blade!"_

_The pause had likely been brief, though noisy and dangerous, the longer they stayed in shelter without action, but it felt very long. Gwyneth looked to where Alistair gestured, the scant sunlight hitting the snow drifts and catching on the metal of his sword. She nodded to herself, patting Noble and getting up enough to crouch on her knees, not unlike a pouncing cat readying itself to catch a mouse. "I can get it!"_

_"You can 'what'? Gwyn, no! You'll be killed!" It was right out there in the open, and distraction or no, there'd be no time before the dragon roasted Gwyneth alive._

_"No one here can run as fast as I can, you know that's true, and we need to get those ashes or Arl Eamon will die!" She growled, Noble whining at her side as if he knew what his mistress was up to._

_"You don't think I know that? He raised me, _I _want him to come out of this a hell of a lot more than _you_ do, but this is crazy!" He shouted, ducking as another chunk of stone came flying towards the remnants of a dome wall that Alistair had taken cover behind. The dragon knew where they were, and they had to do something soon or they were _all_ going to die._

_"We can't get into the main temple with that winged bitch in the way, and we sure as hell can't wait her out while she tries to crush us to death!" She shouted over to Morrigan, the witch straining to hear her. "Fireball, I need a fireball, a really fucking big one! Have Wynne cast too, I don't care about the mana! There are still a few potions left for you to use. I have to have it distracted!"_

_"Distracted from what?" Morrigan shrieked as she had to rear back from the remainder of a summoning gong that went flying towards her, as a dragon wing bashed it aside. "Gwyneth, no!" She screamed at the noblewoman in unison with Alistair, casting anyway as Gwyneth bolted from cover._

_She rolled on her knees, jumping to somersault over a chunk of temple roof. No sooner had she landed there, palms pressed to the ground, than she was springing up again, twisting her hips to dodge around a stone head that had been severed from a statue. The stone eyes were oblivious as she ran from there, grabbing the rim of a cobbled arch to swing over the large pile of rubble where Alistair's sword was laying._

_"Maker, she's going to get pummeled!" Wynne bemoaned, readying another fireball as Morrigan's was fading away._

_Alistair almost didn't want to watch, but he had to, smiling in spite of himself as she held up his sword, grinning from ear to ear. The victory fell short as the dragon turned, shaking off the lick of flames from Wynne's casting as Gwyneth had nearly made it back. It opened its fanged maw, taking in a deep breath of air to ready the fire from its belly. "Gwyn! Look out!"_

A lick of flame crossed in front of Alistair's eyes and he nearly jumped back, memory blending into present with a jolt of warmth and bright orange. Bowls of oil had soaked the tips of spears, lit from braziers as performers marched in front of the dancers, representing the mage fire of the marching Tevinter Imperials that proven Andraste's end.

Gwyneth and the women dancing with her twirled back away from the spear men, their movements more artistic than a true representation of evasion, but the point came across. Her hands raised to the sky as if imploring The Maker to save them, knowing that He had not saved Andraste from her death, even if she had been His bride, her matrydom had served the realm far better in the end. Drawing down on herself, Gwyneth marked the end of the Remigold, to the sound of racuous applause. Once she'd deemed the pause long enough, she and the rest of the white garbed dancers rose to unmask themselves.

Losing himself in the applause, the king's memory swallowed his thoughts again. Alistair could remember that Morrigan had nearly killed him in rage when Gwyneth was burned. Gwyn had gotten his sword and tossed it to him, but she hadn't been fast enough to avoid all of the dragon's fire, caught on the periphery. It had taken nearly a week for her to heal, and it had been the first time he'd caught her using that damnable culcae cream to return her face to the flawless appearance that Gwyneth seemed to favor, over her own health. '_Stubborn, vain, brash woman!'_

_"You fool! Coward! Letting her run off like that! If she dies, 'tis your fault and I shall cook the skin off your bones better than any dragon!" Morrigan shrieked, Leliana standing in front of Alistair, equally angry, but with her ire aimed in a different direction._

_"No one lets Gwyneth _do_ anything, she does as she will. You should know that better than the rest of us. Gazing at her all the while as you do, should give you some perspective, no? Leave Alistair alone, he is not to blame!" The Orlesian had a gentle side, that everyone was aware of, her soft spoken voice lending itself in support of that, but her ire was far from gentle, and for Alistair she would've been as harsh as she needed to be to stand by him._

_"I do not 'gaze at her all the while', unlike you and your cow eyes lingering on your idiot templar! What oblivious half wits the both of you are!" Morrigan balked, quick to take up the offensive in a move that Alistair had begun to suspect was a cover for how she really felt. _

_That she cared about Gwyneth was obvious to everyone but her, as a friend most certainly, but for a moment Alistair wondered if it might not be more than that. Leliana's words made him wonder, but he dismissed it just as quickly._

_"I care about Gwyneth only because she is the second most intelligent person in this group, the rest of you combined have a lack of brains defecient enough to be the ruination of this joke you call a fellowship!" Her squawking was cut short as the objective of their argument emerged from the tent, half her face hidden beneath a bandage. Morrigan's eyes softened a half second before she caught herself and hardened them again. "You are well?"_

_"My face was nearly burned off, and it stings to even speak . . . so no, I am not well, but I will be." Gwyneth's eyes were as hard as Morrigan's. "I _will_ be."_

Gwyneth pulled off the emotionless white clay mask that all of the dancing ladies had been wearing, to reveal her bright face beneath, a broad smile sent Alistair's way as she bowed to the crowd, and he returned that smile with warmth. She was a lovely sight, even if she was a pain in the ass.

* * *

Her belly full and content with all the treats to be had at their private feasting table, Gwyneth hummed in her bath, purposely thinking of nothing else but that day. Everyone dealt with grief in their own way, and she knew that she would always choose to distract herself from it. Most of the time it worked, and the fine scent of her imported bath salts were a fine balm when mixed with the pleasantness of a tub full of hot water.

The king and the teyrn were still in the common room of their host's manor, likely drunker than dwarves by now. Gwyneth smirked at that, amused at how drink could make friends of enemies, though she had no complaints if her brother decided to take Alistair in . He could use the education on nobility from a man, there was only so much Gwyneth could make him understand. She caught herself wishing, hardly for the first time, that her father were still alive. He would have shaped Alistair into a proper leader in less than a month, but Fergus was just as talented, if he so chose to be.

Yet Alistair seemed to be making his own way, the complaining had lessened and he was taking his responsibilities more seriously, sometimes Gwyneth even dared to think he might enjoy being king. Though she'd not tell him so. His handling of the situation in the Bannorn had been inspired, harsh and almost a bit frightening, but there was an allure to that kind of strength as well. The queen found herself wondering if her husband had always had that in him, and if she'd just not taken the care to see it, but if it were so, she doubted Alistair knew he had that in himself either. Lately, however, it was there for many to see, and she could take pride being on the arm of a successful sovereign. Now, she need only keep him on that path and insure her own place there as well. No easy task, but Gwyneth didn't balk at a challenge.

She called to one of the serving women that had been waiting just outside the door, the petite girl quick to hand her a dry towel, before helping the queen into her thin ivory night robes, hair wet and heavy as it was pulled up into a pinned mass of curls atop her head. The servants there were almost meek, and certainly quiet, and it made her miss her Lady in Waiting, and she couldn't wait to get back to Denerim and give Siofra a long list of things to catch up on. A smile drew her mouth up as she dismissed the silent servant, who bowed in prostration before exiting the room.

Normally the queen would have continued her revels, still in the common room with the others, but she was wearied by her grief and her planning, and even the enjoyment she'd taken from the day might have proven too much if she remained. So a quiet evening spent in her guest chamber was preferred. Nearly relaxing into bed with the newest copy of Lord Ponce's Rules for Engaging Conversation, a dark bit of satire about the Orlesian noble's tendency to create lists of rules for parties, she recalled the small note and package that young Master Tennan had brought her before the jousting.

Drawing her sash tight around her belly, she sat at the desk, a small pile of other letters remaining there, but those could wait for morning. Harold's encounter with the harried man, gave her some cause for concern about how 'dire' the package and letter could be. The note was rolled and tied with the same twine that kept the small pouch closed.

It was a tatty sort of papyrus paper, smelling strongly of salt and burnt wood, tiny and the writing a hasty script, but the letters curling and the manner of the prose familiar in a way Gwyneth could not figure out at first. The ink wasn't typical either, and put her to mind of the ash and oil mixture Wynne had used when they were out of ink on the road, but it wasn't from her.

_Gwyneth,_

_I would have much preferred to keep my promise, that you need not see me or think of me, but things have gone astray, and that is putting it most mildly._

_There is no time to write more, the days grow worse and I do not have the strength anymore. In the pouch you shall find a ring I fashioned for you from one of my own baubles, tis enchanted, quite heavily, for your protection. I have set a glyph upon it, if you would place it on your finger before a mirror, that will activate the glyph._

_Do so promptly and privately, tis not something you would wish others to hear. If I am too sickened to recall my own words, you must insure that you wear this ring each night before you are lost to the Fade of Dreams. The great beast can find you there and twist your mind, I feel that he may have attempted this already._

_Take care and do as I ask in a manner most timely._

_Your Friend, M._

It wasn't written in code, but vague enough that few others would understand it, though her name featured prominently at the head of the brief letter. Then again, the writer had never been one for secret correspondences and courtly intrigue.

_Morrigan._

The queen's heart seized, as she read the letter three times over to be certain she wasn't imagining things. It had been so long since she had heard from the apostate, who had been her closest companion during the Blight. Too long, but Gwyneth had done her utmost to make good on her own end of the bargain that had saved her life and that of Alistair.

Morrigan would carry a child with the archdemon's soul, she'd not bother anyone so long as they did not bother her, the matter would not be spoken of, and Gwyneth had to do her best to forget about the witch. Concerns for Ferelden's future and her own extra planning had kept her focus firmly away from her once dear friend, a woman, the only female, that Gwyneth had felt such a strong kinship with. She'd known it was more than that, though could never say the words, and in the end, they hadn't seemed to matter. They may have been souls entwined, but their lives were not.

Cailan had dominated her free thoughts, and her new reign took care of the rest, and now Gwyneth felt almost ashamed at her minimal success in putting Morrigan behind her. Even for the nightmares and the fear they garnered, she had tried ever harder.

Gwyneth's brows came together, knitting tightly above the bridge of her nose, opening the pouch carefully to drop a small pewter ring into her hand. It was an ugly thing, two carved demons devouring eachother, which would explain why Morrigan would have liked it. She smiled, recalling with fondness how Morrigan always chose the strangest costume jewlery and trinkets whenever they had some extra coin at a market.

She touched it, trying to see the details, if there was any mark, sliding it onto her index finger cauitously, when the mirror of her dressing table seemed to set itself a flame, as bright as the light was that it gave off. Gwyneth shielded her eyes, wincing into it, as a voice came at her through some kind of portal. A distant echo, warbling and uneven before it finally established itself. The speech was as familar to Gwyneth as her own.

"My . . . friend. I would hesitate to say that I have missed your face, but my end is near, I am afraid, and there is very little hesitation anymore . . . and I . . . it is good to see you." Morrigan tried to smile, before her eyes clamped shut in pain, small rivulets of red ran down her cheeks from the small fissures that had opened in her skin. "You may not appreciate the . . . the surprise, but I could not make it to you, not before . . ." She clenched her jaw, shaking her head as if she were bothered by a swarm of flies. "No! I shall not, beast! I will never!"

Gwyneth held the letter curled against her abdomen, the fist it was in, pressed there against the shock that tightened her innards, mingled equally with the pit of rapidly growing unease. "M-Morrigan?" Once she'd gathered her wits, she moved closer to the mirror, mouth turning up into a short lived smile of elation at seeing her, before the realization that it wasn't likely to be a pleasant reunion set in. "What kind of magic is this? I don't understand how you can be talking to me through a pane of glass."

The mage gasped, gripping the sides of the mirror that she must have been standing in front of for her contact spell to work. "No time, no time at all." Her words were labored, every breath was a torture.

Gwyneth glanced behind her, glad she had locked the door, and lowered her voice. "No time for _what_? Tell me what's going on, damn it!" Her waspish whisper was filled with more fright than anger.

Again the mage shook her head, pressing her palms to her temples. "Leave me be! Is it not enough what you have done?" Clearly speaking to someone other than Gwyneth. Her eyes were as gold as ever, but seemed far dimmer than Gwyneth could recall. "He does not wish me to speak to you, to tell you. Our minds are together now, at first just a few images that he could not control when he was trying to contact you, I imagine, but now . . . " She smiled, cat like and victorious. "Now he can hide nothing from me, anymore than I can hide from him."

The queen tried to speak but didn't know what to say through her confusion. "Morrigan, I don't . . . who?"

"Urthemiel." Morrigan hissed.

Recoiling from the name, it was then Gwyneth who was shaking her head, in denial. "No. No! I killed it, the final blow against the arch-demon to end the Blight, and all that other Grey Warden bullshit! He's dead! You told me that it was just the old god's essence, that the child would be free of any other taint!" Her tone was panicked and accusing, but there was nothing for it.

Morrigan's smile remained, turning sad and almost accepting. "I was mistaken, a rarity to be sure." She was struggling for control of herself, that much was clear, an invisible battle of wills. "As terrible as we thought the archdemon was, it remained Urthemiel's prison, and his power and mind were muted inside that shell. I did not anticipate his will for freedom, his horrible strength . . . how could I have known?" A hand wiped across her brow, inspecting the sweat and blood there with a macabre curiosity. "So fast, it grows so fast." Her eerie golden eyes were on Gwyneth, intense as she could manage. "He has come to you, though not of late, as his time for_ rebirth _draws near. I can tell, and he will do so again with more fervor once he is freed. The beast covets your womb, he believes you may be able to carry his spawn unlike the many failed experiments that came before. He whispers to himself in my mind, chipping away, always chipping." She rubbed her temples, eyes shuttered again.

"Morrigan, I thought . . . I told myself they were only dreams, I tried to deny it, I did . . . this can't be happening!" Gwyneth sobbed, using the vanity to keep herself upright, her legs feeling like they had all the stability of water.

"I know, I did the same, denied it to the very last, and that 'very last' is today." A shriek of pain and Morrigan was doubled over, backing away from the mirror on her side, enough that Gwyneth could see the unnaturally large bulge her stomach had become, the skin starting to split where it was visible. "The darkspawn taint . . . Urthemiel whispers how he is worried, now that you no longer carry it. His essence passing through you, be believes you and Alistair are cleansed, but it was only replaced with his own tainted blood, he is not so certain that you can carry his heir, but he will try, as he has done so many times before. I do not know how, I doubt even he does, though he tries to pretend all knowledge is his to possess." Morrigan laughed, and it was a terrible, manic sound. "He honestly thinks Flemeth . . . he thinks my mother is his sister, that she is Lusacan, using a mortal body as a shell, the way Urthemiel has used the child's body as a shell. He thinks she is not dead." She paused taking a breath, starting to lose her concentration. "I felt the babe, you know, for just a moment, until he consumed its life for his own use."

Gwyneth was crying, her eyes stinging, shaking her head in horrified disbelief.

"The beast's control is slipping." Her grin was feral, nearly mad, but still all Morrigan. "You have to keep the ring, you must wear it, so he will be unable to haunt The Fade of your _own_ mind. His power, it is limited, but if he gets his heir, he will try and use their blood, to return himself to the deity state he once had. This _cannot_ be!" Morrigan's voice rose, almost as panicked as Gwyneth. "No!" She screamed hands at her head, clawing at it. "There is no more time, I cannot . . . listen to me! I hear him planning, whispering to the darkspawn and other things, he is concerned about the bones of Old Gods, like himself, he is worried they can ki . . ."

She stopped before her speech was done, face slack and body swaying lightly, as if in a trance.

"Morrigan? Morrigan!" Gwyneth shrieked, pawing at the glass, but there was no physical presence behind it, only the visage that the mage had somehow managed to establish contact through.

A laugh worked its way across that strange connection, at first the harsh rasp of Morrigan's voice, and the apostate threw back her head, as it got deeper, nearly inhuman. Gwyneth watched in confusion and the same shock that had remained throughout that harrowing conversation.

Golden eyes seemed to melt away, swallowed up by a hideous hot white and Morrigan's lips turned up viciously, bleeding from the cracks across their swollen surface. "Hello my pretty, witty, Gwyn. You look lovely in white." A voice like a tremor, powerful and building slowly, ethereal for its tone, with the strangest accent Gwyneth had ever heard.

The mockery of Cailan's pet name brought a sob out of Gwyneth, knowing who and what she was speaking to. She ignored it, hoping her friend could still hear her. "Morrigan . . . Morrigan, I'm so sorry!"

"Your witch is dead, or she soon will be. A small price to pay for my freedom." Morgreth Urthemiel smiled with his stolen mouth, though it wouldn't be long before he'd have his own body, and the assurance of that success was evident on Morrigan's face, twisted with an intent that wasn't hers. He laughed again, a booming noise that sounded as if it could crack the ground apart. "The two of you, planning my demise is it? Mortals, always trying to get the upper hand, but I will not allow it, not this time. I will have my ascension and the world will burn, with my son at my side."

"I'll give you nothing! I'd sooner die!" Gwyneth hissed, knuckles white where they gripped the edge of the desk.

"I'm sure you will, but your protests have no relevance." His voice was harmonious and alluring, despite the awful words he spoke. A glamor often used to seduce the mortals, and he hadn't forgotten how it was done during his imprisonment.

"You are going to die! I will kill you, slowly, so you suffer!" Gwyneth's tears felt hot against her face as she opened her eyes, glaring at him in a rage that temporarily overtook her terror.

"I look forward to seeing you try, little pet. All in good time, my sweet, for now we must remain apart, but my brides shall see to my rebirth, and it will not be long after that." He hummed, drawing closer to the mirror's surface as Gwyneth recoiled. "Your skin looks so smooth. I think the first thing I shall do, is taste it!"

He lunged, using Morrigan's tongue as he nearly licked the mirror, before Gwyneth screamed, afraid he had enough power to actually touch her through the glass. She grabbed a jar from her vanity and threw it with all the might she could muster, the mirror shattering loudly as Gwyneth fell to the floor, wrapping her arms around herself to sob. "I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry. I don't know what to do, Morrigan, I don't know what to do!"

Those same words were repeated over and over, in the silence, before someone came to check on her. Someone always did, but it wouldn't make any difference. Morrigan was gone, and Gwyneth would not be far behind her.

It seemed like hours, trapped inside her own mind, before she heard knocking on the door, then banging, Alistair's voice muffled through the wood. "Gwyn, open this door! Someone, bash it down if you have to!" He must have been speaking to the servants.

Finally it gave way, the wood of the jamb around the lock splintering enough for the door to open. Alistair was red faced, huffing. He got down to his knees, shaking Gwyneth gently when she wouldn't even acknowledge him, eyes staring off into the corners of the room, blank and swimming with tears.

"Gwyn, the servants came to get me, they said you'd locked yourself in here and they heard glass breaking and you screaming at someone. Who was in here, what happened?" He shook her again, worry making him terse. "Answer me!"

"Morrigan is dead." She whispered, voice as tight as her throat.

Alistair grimaced, looking back to the servants, a few of them gawking in the doorway. "Get out of here, all of you." They remained, barely moving at all and he was forced to yell. "Now!" He knew they'd probably go get Teyrn Cousland, but right then, little else mattered.

When they'd finally left, he closed the door again, as much as he could with the broken jamb, and sat down next to Gwyn, trying to hold her, but she wasn't cooperating, her body as limp as a rag doll. "They're gone, you can tell me, who was in here Gwyn, who was talking to you, how do you know Morrigan is dead?"

"She sent me a ring and when I . . . when I put it on . . . " Gwyneth looked to the broken mirror, sobbing anew.

"Alright, alright you don't have to tell me now." Her murmured into her hair, pressing it against his shoulder. He didn't know what to do when women got that upset around him, he'd never known, and especially not with Gwyneth, but he was trying.

"He's coming, Urthemiel is coming back, and he's going to kill all of us, starting with Morrigan." She murmured the words into Alistair's shoulder and felt him rear back, grabbing her jaw to stare her down, those brown eyes boring into hers.

"Urthemiel? As in, archdemon, grand general of the Blight, and big old dragon that we killed on Fort Drakon?" He was aware his voice was gaining some impressive pitch and tried to calm down, for her sake. "Gwyn, that's not possible, we killed . . ."

She shook her head, eyes gone wide as if staring into herself. "No, we just cracked open his prison and set him free. I've known, I've known for awhile. He . . . he would come to me in The Fade." Gwyneth cried, shoulders shaking. "I told myself it wasn't real, and that always worked, but not . . . not anymore." Her eyes wandered again to the broken glass. "Morrigan sent me a ring, had some kind of spell on it, when I wore it . . ." She rubbed the devouring carved demons on her finger. "She spoke through the mirror, told me . . . told me what he wanted and that he was going to be here soon and we were out of time."

There was an old nightmare that Alistair had, only once, but it stayed with him, haunting him as the worst ones do.

_Morrigan is lain across the stone dais for the thrones, her once brilliantly golden gaze now the milky eyes of a dead woman. Her unique attire has been ripped to shreds, opening to reveal her nearly colorless skin. Red ribbons of flesh decorate the sides of her abdomen, the witch's belly split open like an over-ripe grape, deep gouges on her as if something tore its way out of her guts._

"_Tis almost a shame, she was such a lovely thing, really, for a human. Though she should have known that no mere mortal could have contained one such as I, mage or no. Her ego demanded it be so, but she could not change fate, no more than _you_ can, boy king." The dark man shakes his head, perhaps even sadly, but hardly as if he has many regrets. "_You_ know, do you not, my love?"_

_Behind the dark man stands the queen, familiar but alien in the carelessness of her image. Hair haphazardly done up, her gown filthy and torn. Blood runs freely down her thighs, staining the fabric of her sleeping attire and Alistair cannot shake the thought that it's virginal blood. Gwyneth smiles indulgently as the strange man takes her hand to lay a kiss on it. When she looks at Alistair, her eyes are a hot glowing white. The eyes of the arch-demon, and when the dark man turns, his are now the same._

"_He is Morgreth the Undying, the Destroyer. The Tevinter mages called Him 'Urthemiel', for He is beauty and death absolute." Gwyneth still smiles, looking for all the world like one besotted, her voice calm and collected. "He is the end, and we deserve it for what we've done, the sins we have committed . . . we are murderers."_

"I think I saw him once, too. I don't know how that can be . . . I . . how is this happening?" Horror reflects in the dark brown of his irises, nearly turning them black. "Oh, Gwyn . . ."

She sobbed, finally moving to clutch at him like a lifeline. "I don't know what to do!"

Fergus had come, almost pushing the king aside to get at his sister. "Gwyny-Gwyn, what happened? Were you fighting with my sister?" Accusing eyes turned Alistair's way.

"What? No! Look, this is a private matter and I don't think . . . " Alistair began, defensive.

"He's my brother, he should know, as should you. I ought to have said something before, but I was too scared and I wanted to deny it, but now . . ." Gwyneth sighed into her sleeve, as Fergus curled his arms around her to hold her tight as she sobbed. "There is so much to tell you . . ."

A racket of shouting and gasps came from the courtyard, the window cracked open to let air into the humid room. It had grown loud enough to the disturb the three nobles, as they reluctantly got up to see what was going on.

Red light had bathed the courtyard, not from a lantern or mage's work, but from the night sky. All eyes glanced up at it, voices shouting it disbelief from the ground below. "The moon, the moon is bleeding!" It was an accurate enough description, clouds of red coloring that pale globe as if it was a white stone dropped into a bowl of red wine.

Fergus was the first to speak, his sister and her husband looking up at it in stunned silence. "What devilry is this?"

There was no answer as Highever hung beneath that ominous blood red moon.

* * *

All the screaming had stopped some time ago, the clearing of the woods nearly quiet but for the squelching noises of flesh and blood. Morrigan's body was pale and lifeless, golden eyes dimmed with the haze of death as she stared at nothing, the only color on her skin from the blood of her torn belly.

Pulling itself free from the ribbons of her skin, was the body of what appeared to be a young child, still small, but larger than any normal newborn. Hair like ink was pulled away from its face by hands tipped not with nails, but ebony talons, short but sharp. He looked down at the dead woman with white eyes, glowing in the darkness of the woods.

"Not so clever now, are we, dead woman?" The voice was that of a child, but the intent was far from young and innocent. That any child of such a young age would be able to speak much at all, was proof enough that the thing that had been_ born _in those woods, was not human.

"My Lord . . ." From the trees came the strained whisper of a creature, looking like a woman but for the black rot that was her lower face, maw hanging open much too far as the bones of her body clicked when she moved beneath her worn white gown. The thing fell to its knees like it was praying, when behind it, several more of the creatures followed suite.

"Ahh, my brides. Have you brought something to eat, my lovelies?" He stepped forward, naked and covered in the remnants of his emergence from the dead witch's belly.

"Yes, My Lord, we took a village for you, all the children and the innocents. Their life force is yours, oh Great One." The voice warbled, like a bag of rocks being rolled in a hasty palm.

He looked up at the moon, watching it bleed in an omen for his ascension. _'Even the Heavens recognize my return, for the Maker can no longer deny me' _The Old God smiled with the illusion of a toddler's face. "Good. I am most ravenous."


End file.
